I’ll Never Learn My Father Can’t Learn

You’ve flipped a switch expecting illumination in the room, but alas, no light. You know the power’s out, but it’s such an automatic gesture, you do it anyway. Even as you wander from room to room, you flip the switch.

This is what it’s like to be the caretaker of someone with dementia. Flipping a switch expecting unattainable light is one of the things you will encounter daily. It’s automatic.

My father can’t learn anymore. That’s not meant to be an absolute. I’m sure he’s attained new skills, retained names of the people entering his life. But much of what he once knew is now gone, and though I know he can’t be retaught, I try anyway. Not because I think “this time he’ll get it!” No, I do it because it’s automatic.

Do you remember video tape? My father’s mind is like a video tape that’s lost it’s ability to record. Those tiny magnetic particles, a billion of them, have fallen off the Mylar. No matter how many times I pass that tape over an electromagnet, it will never record again.

One thing he’s lost, the thing that seems most debilitating, is his ability to sequence. Think about standing. You lean forward and push from the calves. The quads and gluteus maximus kick in. Heels down, shoulders back. Steady now. You’re standing.

Or so that’s how it feels to me. For my father, it’s more of a puzzle. “Feet down, Daddy. They need to touch the floor. No, really Daddy. They need to be on the floor. Yes, that’s right. And remember, you have to lean forward. Good. Try moving your feet a little closer together. Remember how we’ve talked about your legs? They’re the most important part. Don’t forget to use your legs. Now push up with your hands, one on each side of your body. That’s it! You’re getting it. Now one, two, three stand.” My forearm fits snuggly under his armpit, and, with only a slight assist on my part, up he goes!

I go from room to room, incident to incident, teaching Daddy to stand. It’s automatic. I know the sequencing’s lost, but I do it anyway.