The Long Goodbye

Heart attack.
Massive stroke.
Embolism.
Aneurysm.
Bear.

Unexpected, quick ways that a life can be snuffed out. What follows would likely be a wave of grief and disbelief for all those close to the deceased. That’s not how it goes when a loved one has a degenerative disease, like my dad’s FTD. I wish it WERE floral, but it’s not.

When you stub your toe, you get pain, and a perspective (P). That P is what you need, something to shake you out of your being so unappreciative of unstubbed toes. And it goes away, and you curse out ever putting the safe in the living room, but hell, your heist went wrong, and you had to beat the heat.

My dad’s mom passed away 30’ish years ago after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s. So I know it’s in the pool, and I’m hoping I can find out if there’s anything I can do to kill the onset of it. Selfish, I know. My dad’s condition has made me think so much about my own health and future that all I can imagine is living until 95, sharp and spry. Like it’s not Hell enough to watch my dad go through it, I will beat it in my old age and then live long enough to bore everyone at the Playboy Mansion with stories about how music used to be on flat, round discs called “micro-chips.”

Late last week my dad was diagnosed as a level 4, which means he’s in the last stage of dementia. It gets not only worse, but WAY worse. A year ago my dad could have a conversation, even if not a very long one, and could convey how he feels to people. Not anymore. He nods off. He stares off. He stutters. He tries to read, so hard he tries to read a newspaper, but can only get through a headline before his attention goes elsewhere. In essence, Gerry Lott as we’ve known him for all these years, is tucked deep within the shroud of Dementia.

And I feel guilty, God knows how I feel so guilty, but if we can’t find a cure, a help, a remedy, I hope for his sake, and the sake of my family, that God take him gently and quickly. I have not given up on him. I am not looking to Western Medicine any longer. It has drugged him to the point that he’s a walking anti-psychotic cocktail. Who knows what’s going on in that poor man’s brain. We need help. We have ideas of what we can do, and hope that it is enough to keep him content and calm.

Again, the guilt of praying for his release from a human experience that is so far beneath the Man my dad always was is tremendous. Is it worse than wanting someone in pain to go quietly? He’s not in pain that can be measured, but if my dad took a step outside to see what he’s become, and what it has done to my family, especially my mom, he, too, would wish for a quick and Divine decision.

My mom has handled this with a truly amazing strength. The dreams she had of traveling with my dad as they got older are gone. They won’t get to enjoy anything together the way they once did. Her husband is gone, but still here, but not, and that’s the hand that was dealt. And she has been strong through it all. Lots of tears, of course. But she keeps going on. Amazing. Helping me, my sister, and many other people through their tough times, when she has the right to sit back and say “NO, not now.” Yet she goes forward with Grace and strength. No wonder my dad married her.

Be Good today.