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Earlier in 2007 my sister was going through some of our fathers papers and discovered several of his military documents. We thought we knew him pretty well but these papers opened our eyes to a part of him we never knew.
By the time I really had an interest of learning about his life and his life’s experiences Alzheimer’s had reached the point that he no longer realized who I was. I could see it in his eyes and knew he appreciated that I was someone special in his life but he no longer knew my name or that I was his only son. The pain I felt watching him slip away was too much for me. I was losing my hero. Since Alzheimer’s is an inherited disease I wondered if I was looking at my future.
At first I wasn’t even aware there was a problem. My mother had passed away in the early 70’s dad being remarried and me being in the military most of my adult life I didn’t go home as often as I would have should have. I had a family of my own and even when I did go home things had changed so much that after a couple days I was ready to leave. Returning from England in 1990 dad and I did have a phone relationship. At least once a week we talk on the phone. Somewhere around the mid 90’s I noticed dad didn’t call as much. He would always find a lot of reasons: he had a new phone and didn’t know how to use speed dial, he lost my number. I just considered them as excuses and moved on.
I remember one conversation when he was telling me he couldn’t get the lawn mower started. Dad was a pretty good mechanic so I thought he would figure it out. It was strange that of all the conversations I remember that one the most. After dad had passed on I was home and talking our neighbor Mr. Ford. Remembering the good times Mr. Ford commented that the first time he knew of my dad’s illness was one day when he found him standing in the back yard looking at the lawn mower. Dad had told him he couldn’t get it to start. There was nothing wrong with the mower; dad had just forgotten that you needed to pull the starter rope to start it. I instantly remembered the conversation.
The last time I saw my dad was in July 1999. It was then I learned first hand the seriousness of my dad’s illness. For three days we sat in the house and watched CNN: Every morning his wife would feed him and turn on the TV but dad had forgotten how to use the remote. Our conversations were not what you would call conversations. He would reply to my comments but not in any way that made sense. At no time during my visit did he ever say my name or even call me son. To know me is the same as knowing my dad in his early years. Private in our thoughts, never met a stranger and loves to tell jokes and make people laugh. But during that last visit jokes and laughter were replaced by silence. When I left we exchanged hugs. I knew deep down that would be the last time I would see him.
The following year his condition deteriorated very rapidly. Rodney, my childhood friend, would call and keep me informed. Lawrenceville is a pretty small town so everyone knew everyone’s business. I learned that dad was often found walking several miles from the house. Not knowing where he was going or even where he was. It reached the point that his wife could no longer properly care for him and he was placed in a home. My sister lived fairly close and would visit him when she could. She told me that dad no longer talked or even acknowledged her presence when she would visit. I struggled so much between wanting to see him but at the same time did not want to see him like that. I never did go home. Even today I often regret that decision but deep down I don’t think I could have handled it.
On 30 November, 2000 my son Mark and I went on a chartered fishing trip on the Chesapeake Bay. The weather was cold and wet. As a group we had caught one fish all day. Late in the afternoon the captain told us in 15 minutes we were heading home. Just about the same time something hit my son’s pole. The fish put up a great fight but Mark was able to land it. The last fish of the day and it was the largest; close to 30 pounds. As Mark was holding his prize for a photo a large wave crashed over the boat and soaked him. Early the next day while still recovering from our trip I received a phone call telling me dad had passed away. One of dad’s dreams was to one day go fishing on a large boat and catch the big one. I am convinced that the day before dad had fulfilled his dream through his grandson. As a way of saying goodbye he allowed Mark to catch his big one and as one last joke had sent the wave. I know in his last moments he was laughing. That’s the way I want to remember him.
Once day my children might be going through my papers and discover something about me that they never knew about me. That’s why I’m writing my life story. It’s going to take me awhile. I don’t plan on writing in any particular chronological order but instead I want to write about moments in my life that created memories by subject. As I publish my thoughts I intend on placing a copy in my special lock box as sort of a time capsule. One day my children might find them and after reading they might sit back and say: That’s a side of Dad I didn’t know.
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