No regrets: a journey with Alzheimer's

Christian Century, Nov 1, 2003 by Daphne Simpkins

"I'm so sorry," I said, mopping up juice and chocolate drool.

His head bobbed. When his chin bounced off his chest, the residue of chocolate fell out of his mouth, and I caught it with the napkin.

"The party's over," I said. "I'll take you home."

We made the five-minute drive home in a silence that didn't hum with shared thoughts or songs. It was a still silence. The images of the town flew by. There were people headed out to play golf, people toting Christmas trees on the roofs of their cars, people going to the Smoke House for barbecue. Did they remember that this day was a gift, every minute precious--every fleeting moment a memory in the making?

LATER THAT NIGHT, I am awakened by the implanted revelation that Daddy needs me. I pick up my eyeglasses which need to be changed. My vision is deteriorating, or so it seems to me, but no one has confirmed my diagnosis. I don't have a way to go to the eye doctor or any other kind of doctor. I haven't been in three years. The piano hasn't been tuned in five.

In the shadows of early morning, I move as Mother did before me to the stairs, where I stand and listen for Daddy.

I do not hear him. Do I imagine his need of me? Is God speaking? Is it only one of the interior voices inside my own head trying to get itself born in a story? I no longer worry about why the many selves of personhood do not coalesce into one perfect self. I know only one thing: I trust God's love and the expression of it. "Jesus," I testify.

The loneliness of Daddy's spirit speaks into the deep recesses of my soul, and I whisper, "I'm on my way," though Daddy has not called out, and when I speak, he does not answer me.

Down the stairs I go, my bones creaking, and I wonder if at 44 I have some disease that could possibly be cured if I had a good doctor. I let go of the question. The answer is irrelevant. I will live its long as I am supposed to live, and then I will die.

I find my daddy.

He is standing in the kitchen, behind the stairs, and he, quite simply, has exploded. His body is covered in urine and excrement, and he can't figure out what to do about it. He is immobilized, a statue. He is drooling.

"Help me, God." I repeat my prayer. I fall to my knees, and in faith that I will last long enough to do the work, my hands go where they do not want to be. I begin stripping my beautiful daddy. It is not an easy job to undress a man who cannot follow directions as well its a child. This is not a baby's game.

I will not go into the details of the clean-up. I will tell only the important part of the story.

Just as I felt my daddy's presence and his need of me before I descended the stairs, I felt the presence of Love Itself--God--in the room while I tended my sick daddy. As the Fount of Love kept me company in the daylight, so Love was present in the darkness too.

Strength not my own moved my body.

Strength not my own moved my daddy.

Once the clothes were in a soiled puddle on the floor, I led my naked, trusting daddy by the hand to the bathroom. We walked slowly, without a blanket or towel to wrap around him. Suddenly we were confronted by the image of ourselves in the only mirror left in the living room.