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Oct. 13th, 2008
Fuck. I just got home from knitting and there was a new email from my sister Jan. She gave the rundown on the psych nurse's evaluation of my dad. The nurse has officially designated him as being in late-stage Alzheimer's disease. I didn't realize this, but last Monday's evaluation was just the very first part of a 6-week long evaluation, so there are 5 more weeks to go. I have no idea what other tests she's going to do. I have to remember to ask. The nurse said that we should not plan to have Dad attend holiday/family gatherings, nor should we expect him to ever leave the Alzheimer's ward for any reason, except for emergencies or appointments. She has further recommended that we taper off our mom's visits to fewer times per day because it upsets him too much--she's very bossy, demanding, and chatty with him, and he can't process it so it upsets him. Today he was so agitated after she left that he took a swing at a staff member (he missed). She also said that he does not know who any of us are anymore, including our mom.
It is really hard to hear this. I just can't believe that I'll never be able to call him for advice again, or hear him tell one of his stories, or see him in his workshop.
Speaking of which, I had a dream about his workshop last night (actually early this morning). It woke me up, it was so upsetting, though the dream itself was mostly quiet and calm. I was in my parents' basement getting ready to do a load of laundry, and I looked to my left (Dad's workshop is next to the laundry room, so if you were loading one of the machines it would be to your left), and the wall was partially removed, down to the studs, so that I could see through it into the shop. It was completely empty and cleaned out, except for my dad's tall black workbench chair, which was standing in the middle of the room. I lost all of my breath, as if I had been punched really hard in the stomach, and tried to scream and get someone's attention, but I couldn't catch my breath. I woke up then. It was 4am.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I miss him.
It is really hard to hear this. I just can't believe that I'll never be able to call him for advice again, or hear him tell one of his stories, or see him in his workshop.
Speaking of which, I had a dream about his workshop last night (actually early this morning). It woke me up, it was so upsetting, though the dream itself was mostly quiet and calm. I was in my parents' basement getting ready to do a load of laundry, and I looked to my left (Dad's workshop is next to the laundry room, so if you were loading one of the machines it would be to your left), and the wall was partially removed, down to the studs, so that I could see through it into the shop. It was completely empty and cleaned out, except for my dad's tall black workbench chair, which was standing in the middle of the room. I lost all of my breath, as if I had been punched really hard in the stomach, and tried to scream and get someone's attention, but I couldn't catch my breath. I woke up then. It was 4am.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I miss him.
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