The last word-6

   Part 6 : How We Talk About Alzheimer’s

My mom was a woman of many words, and my dad was a man of few.

My mom carried a lot of guilt after we moved my dad into a memory care unit.

It wasn’t an easy decision. My mom had post-polio syndrome and physically couldn’t take care of him. My dad’s dementia had progressed to the point where he needed 24-hour care.

My parents lived with me, but I was working sixty hours a week and wasn’t home to help as much as was required.

After the move I took my mom to the VA to visit often. I would sit at the table with my dad, help him eat, and talk to the other residents. My mom sat across the room in a chair against the wall. Present, but distant.

The nurses noticed. They would ask me why my mom didn’t sit with him.

By then, my dad rarely recognized us. Occasionally, his face would light up when he saw me, just for a second, like he knew he was supposed to know me. And then it was gone.

My mom was terrified my dad would recognize her and be angry that he was in a nursing home. She was afraid he would blame her.

So she stayed back.

My dad lived in that nursing home for one year, one month, one week, and one day.

About a week before he died, on Christmas, my mom and I were there together. My dad loved Hershey bars, and my mom had bought a big Costco-sized box.

I was sitting at the table with my dad, helping him eat his Christmas dinner, when I looked up and saw my mom walk over.

That was unusual.

I was not the only one who noticed. The nurses. The aides. Everyone turned to watch.

My mom stood across from my dad and held out the candy bars.

My dad looked up. Their eyes met, and there was recognition.

He raised his hand, reached toward her face, and asked a single question:

“Why?”

It was just a few seconds, and his hand dropped to his lap. The recognition passed.

The moment was gone.

In true family fashion—no feelings, no unpacking, no discussion—I said to my mom,

“Well… he got the last word.”

And he did.