My Dad Is Losing His Memory
But I will do my best to help him keep his dignity
This past week, I had to take over my parents’ financials. My dad had started to forget to pay bills, and my mom can’t see well enough to take it over.
My mom, my dad, and I had spent all morning at the bank, where I was being added to their accounts. Then, we went back to their house so my mom and I could go over their bank statements.
After we got done, I looked at my dad. He doesn’t hear well, so I had to speak loudly.
“So, Dad, I’m going to be paying your bills now.”
“What? Just because I missed a couple payments, now I’m incompetent?”
“No! I just want to make it easier for you.”
My dad turned to my younger sister, who had stopped over for moral support.
“I’m not buying it.”
I was stunned. After all we had done, my dad didn’t realize what was going on. He felt betrayed.
How do you tell your father, the person who has been a model of strength, integrity, and responsibility for all of your 57 years, that he is no longer able to take care of his bills?
My dad’s memory has been slowly declining for the past 10 years. But within the last year, his short-term memory has almost completely vanished.
This is a very difficult thing to witness. My dad has always been the “go-to guy.” If I needed a home repair, painting done, a workout buddy, help moving furniture, or just advice, he was the one who always was there, for both me and my sister.
My dad is 82. He was a dentist, and then a dental hygiene instructor until just a few years ago. His co-workers and students adored him. In fact, everyone adores my dad. He just one of those great, likable, selfless guys.
My parents have been married for almost 60 years. My mom can see what’s going on, but she doesn’t want to believe it. She has always been dependent on him, and she thinks that if she just keeps reminding him, he will remember what she says.
“I keep telling him and telling him to put his shoes on the left side of the door, but he always leaves them in the middle, where I can trip over them!”
My mom is very organized. Her house is clean, and everything has its proper place. It upsets her that my dad now doesn’t care — really can’t remember — and just leaves things lying around the house.
“Mom, you can keep reminding him, but he’s not going to remember the next time.”
“Well, you’re probably right.”
But then she tries to tell him again.
It’s a hard transition, to have your partner of 60 years become a different person. It’s no one’s fault, but my mom is angry about it.
The other day, I texted her that I had paid their gas bill, and she told my dad.
Dad’s not happy with the bill-paying situation.
Mom! Don’t remind him! I’ll just pay and he won’t have to try to remember.
But, Lisa, I want him to still feel like he has some control.
I think it just makes him upset. Don’t mention it unless he brings it up.
But I think my mom still tries to “keep him in the loop.” It’s just making it worse. I need to have compassion for her. This is so very hard.
When I go over to my parents’ house, I try to talk about things that my dad will be able to respond to. I ask him about his current book — he still reads a lot — and he is always able to remember the gist of what he just read. We play cards. We go on walks. I ask him about things from the past.
I try not to ask him anything that involves dates or specifics, especially if they happened recently. I don’t tell him all the steps of what we are going to do. I focus on one thing at a time.
I try to set him up for a win.
The other day, my dad came back from a run, and then took their dog out for a walk. My sister and I were over visiting.
“Oh, dad’s back. He’s going to want his lunch now.”
“But mom, isn’t he going to shower first?”
“No. He’ll wipe his face with a paper towel and just sit down. It’s okay. Older people don’t stink as much.”
My sister and I looked at each other.
My dad went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He showed up at the table, still in his sweaty t-shirt.
He started sniffing.
“What’s that sour smell?”
“Dad, you just went running.”
My sister and I beat a hasty retreat. When I got home I got a text from my mom:
That sour smell was a bag of dog poop in dad’s pocket.
Oh. My. God.
I know this is just going to get harder and harder. Right now, he still drives. He can get to church, Walmart, and McDonald’s easily. But soon, even that memory is going to go, and then it will be time to take the keys.
I can’t wait until there is a tragedy. I need to anticipate and head off any disasters, as much as I can. It’s a delicate dance, and I’m sure I’m going to make mistakes.
These next few years — perhaps many, as my dad’s in good shape physically— are not going to be easy. But I will try not to shame him or make him feel any more powerless than he already feels.
It’s the least I can do.
Thank you for reading!
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