No regrets: a journey with Alzheimer's

Christian Century, Nov 1, 2003 by Daphne Simpkins

"I don't care how this looks. God is in control," I vowed to the reflection.

Strength to persevere grew out of this proclamation. That is a fact.

The man who had taught the gospel faithfully to his family stood abjecty, obedient to my leading. I led Daddy to the walk-in shower stall. After testing the water, I began at the top of his head and worked my way down, scrubbing rinsing, scrubbing rinsing, checking the crevices of his body for residue of waste and suds that might cause him to have a latent rash.

My beautiful daddy. Oh, I crooned words of praise for my daddy in his dilapidated state of confusion, and the sound of my voice was not an imitation of love that good girls admit in infantile crushes over their first hero; my voice was a prayer of praise and beseechment, a mercy prayer that wrought results and peace and kept me in company with the Presence of Love.

When Daddy was clean and dressed again, only two hours had passed. I put him back to bed. He was asleep before he lay down. I lifted his legs, covered him, kissed his face, and whispered in his ear that I was never far away. Only then did the muscles in his face grow slack, because his spirit knows the sound of my voice even if his brain no longer registers the meaning of the words. He trusts me with his life.

Then I sat in the corner chair during that long good night until the sun came up, and I thanked God for the expression of his love that can even look like death.

Daddy, I knew you were leaving the day the refrigerator stopped working again. I went and got the vacuum cleaner and used it like we had before, but nothing happened. When the motor didn't kick in, and all the cups of ice cream and yogurt that we kept stocked for you melted, I knew you were going to leave soon. I didn't try to save any of the special foods we had bought for you. I let them go to waste, like expensive oil poured on your feet, anointing you in a way that was more emotional than reasonable.

And for nine days at least your body hesitated, your mind coming and going as you waited for Julie Ann to come from Memphis. All of us sisters took our turns beside you in the time of your leave-taking, when loving you was not a care-giving duty--it was our identity and unexpectedly, at times, our joy.

By the way, I took little Katie shoe shopping the day that Hospice came in and urged us to tell you that it was all right to go on. I took your granddaughter shoe shopping, and I bought her six pairs of new shoes because I wanted her to associate death with going places--different kinds of exciting places, where a seven-year-old girl needs all kinds of footgear for traveling.

Katie retained that faithful habit of coming to tell you good night every night until the end. She would begin singing "Silent Night," and then the rest of us would harmonize with her small lead voice, deferring to the innocence and hope of a lullaby that says farewell and hello in the way that only the gospel can.

We did not try to keep her from you, or keep you from anyone who wanted to say good-bye. When my turn came, I told the truth as I understood it and was able to give voice to it: I have adored you, and I always will. You look like you're dying, but the truth is, I think your soul is trying to get born. Go be with a love that is greater than mine.