May’s Not Here

May’s Not Here

Laughing at Alzheimer’s

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I always wanted to write a book called, “Laughing at Alzheimer’s.” Not because I think there’s anything funny about Alzheimer’s Disease, but because humor was the main way my family dealt with the evil theft of my dad’s wit, intelligence, dignity, independence and personality.

My mom still has a note she wrote capturing one of Dad’s lucid moments during his 8-year campaign against dementia. It was early on in the war and in what must have been an infuriating conflict between the clarity of an educated man and the vacant vault of a once abundant brain.

Dad looked at us and his eyes sharpened, announcing the arrival of a rare moment of clarity, “May,” he demanded of my mom, “I wanna know who’s in charge of making me crazy!”

Then immediately after his inquiry, Alzheimer’s stole my dad back to its thieving grips.

Mom and I just laughed. What else could we do?

We couldn’t answer his question because we had the exact same concern. And while we were active in the Alzheimer’s Association, at home, alone with the burgling effects of a terrible disease, laughter was the primary caregiver for us as caregivers.

As Dad’s condition worsened, he “graduated” out of adult caregiving services, confined to his home, just as his once vibrant mind was imprisoned in his skull.  

The family took turns helping Mom. Giving her a break from the strain of feeding, changing, bathing and medicating her husband, our dad.

Tonight, after an evening of singing patriotic tunes with a man who could remember every single lyric but had no recollection of me, my name or the fact that we are related, I get ready for the physically-demanding task of getting Dad into bed.

The transfer from wheelchair to bed starts with a hug. Aside from the benefit of physical connection, the hug is how I get my legs alternating with Dad’s. This allows for a broader base for the following steps.

With my left leg to the outside of Dad’s right side and my right leg between his legs, I raise him up as we hug, getting us both to our feet. Correction: getting us both to my feet.

As soon as I lift Dad up, he clamps his legs around mine. Holding up someone who outweighs you isn’t an easy task, but unexpectedly holding up someone somehow makes that weight heavier. 

Because he is rapidly slipping through my hug and not wanting to sit him back down and repeat any of this, I chose to leverage the death grip he has on my legs. I move on to the next step which is getting his butt on to the bed. His grip on my legs isn’t loosening, so I fast-forward to the next step which is rotating him to lay on his back. 

For any Ultimate Fighting Championship fans, allow me to commentate:  I do a double-leg takedown and guard pass for side control. Translation: anchoring my left leg on the ground, I end up with my torso parallel to Dad’s, laying across him at a diagonal. 

Now we’re rooted in the ground game (the bed being the ground) and if I’m gonna win this match, I need to maintain the dominant position in the hopes of a submission by Dad. None of these words or images are words or images I really want associated with a hug between me and my dad, but what else can I do? 

Dad and I are partly horizontal and I need to get his legs onto the bed, which I typically do by gently cradling his calves in my arms to spin his legs. But with Dad grapevining my legs, I’m forced to guard pass to full mount in the hopes that Dad will tap out or the referee will call the match on account of inappropriate metaphors.

My arms still firmly around Dad in a hug and only my left leg planted, I swing my right leg, intertwined with Dad’s legs onto the bed.

Dad’s not going to bed without a fight and not only do his legs stay wrapped around mine, he tightens their grip.

So now the only contact I have with the ground is my left leg. The rest of me … is in full contact with my Dad … horizontally … on my parent’s bed.  

And Dad isn’t letting go. 

“Dad! Let go!”

“It’s ok!”

“No Dad, it’s not.  This is inappropriate!”

“Inappropriate?”

“Yes Dad, this is inappropriate.”

“May’s not here.” (She is)

“THAT’S NOT WHY THIS IS INAPPROPRIATE! I’m your daughter!”

“Oh.”

Quickly I am out of Dad’s embrace and I am no longer on top of my dad … in my parent’s bed … in front of my mom.

Mom and I just laughed. What else could we do?