Dementia meets Dysfunction
It sucks when someone you love falls prey to dementia, but it’s even harder when you don’t like them.
I know that statement is a terrible disclosure and makes me look like a monster ~ especially because we are talking about my father.
Growing up in a dysfunctional home with a depressed mother and an alcoholic father is no fun. As I have written about in the past, however, growing up fast and being responsible at a young age has given me an incredible amount of gifts and a strong survivor instinct. For these things, I am very grateful.
My mother took hold of her mental health challenges and conquered them. She went to therapy, she left my dad, she quit drinking, and she went back to school and got her G.E.D. (she had to quit high school to birth me). My mom became an important role model to me and one of my biggest supporters. My father, however, continued in his alcoholism which very sadly has now morphed into Korsakoff Syndrome ~ an alcohol induced dementia.
One of the ways that I chose to survive my family and to go on to make something of myself was to somewhat cut off from my dad. I still held a relationship with him, but at arm’s length. Getting too close too often always resulted in disappointment and extreme pain, which I could not bare. To rectify this, I decided to call at Christmas, his birthday, and Father’s Day. Be respectful and stay somewhat connected. We live about 1000 km apart, so visits did not occur often. All of this worked well for me in terms of survival, until now.
With the sparse contact over the years, I asked myself the question that I would often ask clients who were in a similar position with a loved one. If you got the “call”, would you have any regrets (about the distance they had created in the relationship). I had answered no for myself, and felt okay-ish about my limited contact.
Now that goalpost has moved, and I am at a loss.
I had resigned myself that when I got the call that he had died, I would try and forgive myself as I had done what I could in order to keep my own life going. I had not counted on my narcissistic, alcoholic, promise-breaking father to now be childlike and more innocent than I had ever known him to be. Now I feel like shit not spending time with him.
Add another layer to why I am writing this post today: I just found out that he had his licence pulled by his doctor. I know really well what a blow that is to any individual. I remember when I was sixteen and got my licence how great that independence was. My car became my home away from home. My freedom. The backseat of my 1972 Satellite Sebring looked like a typical teenagers bedroom: strewn clothes, curling iron, toiletries … everything one needed in case they didn’t make it home that night. It was awesome.
I have also walked alongside many clients who have lost their independence this way. They go from being mobile one day and getting themselves to where they need to be, to homebound and dependent the next. It really sucks. I remember an almost one hundred year old client who still had his licence. The bangs and scratches on his big old boat were many, but he could still drive to my office!
A funny story about old folks and licences. When an elderly woman at a reunion with her lifelong friends declared that she now had a boyfriend, her friends were curious about this. Why now? Why him? “Well”, she said, “he is handsome and kind … and he can drive!” An older fella who still had his licence.
In my dad’s case, I believe there are many layers to how this is probably affecting him. Being a bit of a selfish ass, now being dependent in yet another way is no doubt a huge blow. Also, he was always a car guy. When I was younger, he owned a 1967 GTX with a 440 in it. Looked pretty and went like stink! He was a proud owner and a proud driver. Maybe driving is in one’s blood, or maybe it was because I grew up in that household, but I too love driving and cars. Mario Andretti was my hero. I wanted to be a race car driver when I grew up.
So put all of that together, and herein lies my dilemma: can I/should I continue the sparse contact for self preservation, or do I break my promise to myself and start visiting more often. I doubt he has much time left where he still remembers much. sigh.
Seems like we have both been thrown a curveball.
