 
**Fuggeddaboudit**

Gil VanWagner

Copyright Gil VanWagner 2012

Published at Smashwords
Fuggeddaboudit

By

Gil Van Wagner
This book is dedicated to Maurice Wheeler, his wife Rainie, his children Patricia, Mark, and Maurice and all the families dealing with Alzheimer's.

Maurice is gone. He is buried in my USAF Uniform. I hope this story brings him and his family some much deserved peace.
Eulogy

"We should have had this funeral six months ago. We should have had my father's funeral on Valentine's Day. It was the last time he was here. It was a simple thing. A simple piece of chocolate from a box I brought for him to give to me since he always gave me a box of chocolates on Valentine's Day. Back when he could. Back when he was still my Daddy."

"He started that tradition when I was ten. It might have been nine. He said it was when I was nine. I said it was when I was ten. I knew I was right as sure as he knew he was right. We argued that point for years. Like it mattered. Knowing it didn't. It was something we did."

"He brought me a heart shaped box of chocolates. He watched as I opened it. Then I offered him the first piece. The chocolate covered cherry. It was his favorite. It was my favorite, too. I was glad there were two of them in the box. Quite frankly, if there was only one, he was getting a caramel. It was my box of chocolates after all."

"Since Dad came down with Fuggeddaboudit,...we both hated even hearing the word Alzheimer's after a while....Fuggeddaboudit it was much easier...and more to the point anyway. Since he came down with Fuggeddaboudit over six years ago, I brought the box of chocolates. At first, he came with me to the store. The last few years, he rarely left the house. It was too much of a production. So I went alone and just brought the box as if he was there with me. Like he "woudda if he coudda" as he would say. I handed him the box. He handed it back to me. I acted surprised. He acted...well, sometimes he wasn't there much to act or anything else. This last time though it was a bit different. I handed him the box, he handed it to me, and I acted surprised. Just like always. I opened the box and handed him the chocolate covered cherry. Just like we always did."

"He ate it. THAT part he seemed to magically remember. Maybe the sweet tooth is invulnerable to Fuggeddaboudit. This year he ate the cherry and then he reached and touched my hand. It kinda surprised me."

"Not that he touched my hand. He did that a lot. When we sat and watched TV or just sat on the porch in his favorite spot. He held my hand when we walked his ten or twenty steps in the garden every so often. He held my hand a lot. This time, it felt different. It felt right. It felt like he was there. I looked at him and I saw him. Him. Right there. Looking back at me. "

"This part chokes me up a bit. It reminds me how long it had been since I saw him there in his own eyes. He was there that day. He smiled. The "I just ate a really good chocolate covered cherry and all is right with the world" smile. I did not say anything. I couldn't say anything. My eyes filled with tears and I just looked at him."

"He spoke. My Daddy spoke. It wasn't gibberish. It wasn't nonsense. It wasn't questions asked thousands of times already. It was my Daddy and he spoke to me. He said, "That was really good. Like really good!" Then he smiled and held my hand a bit tighter. "Thanks for all you did for me, Pal. I feel it and I love you.""

"His last words to me as the father that raised me. "I feel it and I love you". I will always treasure that. What I felt the most though was one of the words. Did. "Thanks for all you DID for me." Past tense. My father knew he would be gone soon. He knew his essence would be gone soon."

"I thought he was preparing me for his death. He actually died that day. He went away. There was no more glimmer of him after that. His body, that thing in that box over there, pumped blood, ate food, and existed for six more months. As my father would likely say, on Valentine's Day, just like Elvis, my father left the building."

"I love you, Daddy. You can have my chocolate covered cherries anytime you want. Thank you for being a wonderful father and I am glad you are at peace now. You deserve it."
Intro

I began with the end because it was so damn long in coming that I didn't want to wait for it all over again. That might sound bitter. That's only because it is. My father is gone and I had to watch him go one piece of his soul at a time and I would not wish that on anyone.

There are hundreds of others just like me out there. Grown-ups that have to be parent to parent that is no longer the parent they loved. Children turned adult tending adults turning to children between bouts of vegetation and panic. Yes, there are good parts. Quite frankly, not enough to make it all worthwhile. Not enough to make up for the heartbreak and anger at what Alzheimer's does to people. Not enough to make it all feel right even when it does end...at least for them. The victims. Our parents. Our loved ones.

I am a positive person. I believe in the Law of Attraction, a Higher Power, that everything is connected, and all things happen for a reason. I tell you that here because it will be easy to forget that as you read the truth of my bitterness. Yet it is true. Being positive is the only thing that kept me from blowing my brains out. It also kept me from blowing his brains out. Barely. Thank goodness, I am a positive person. If not, I might be writing this from jail and it still would have been worth it. Of that, I am positive.
Simple Beginnings

Turns out that I was not the only one that ignored the signs at the beginning. Dad began forgetting a few things. It happens. He was over 70 years old and people begin to forget things when they get older. I saw the evidence and convinced myself I was wrong. Turns out I was wrong. About denying the evidence that is.

Heard a lot of folks did that. My friend Judy did the same thing when her Mom first showed signs of Fuggeddaboudit. "Me, too, Mal. I did the same thing." She stirred her coffee while she spoke to me.

Perkins was still kinda busy, considering it was a weekday and closer to lunch than breakfast. She and I met for lunch a lot. A lot less that we should have and a lot more than most childhood friends do when they are in their forties. It helped that we both still lived in the houses we were raised in. Judy moved away for a while. She lived in Florida but ended up back here when her father died. She and her mother lived together for almost twenty years. Her mother was a pain in the ass but I never said that to Judy. I guess she will know it now though.

"I saw the signs and pretended it would pass. Not my Mom. Not the woman who watched Jeopardy and got most of the questions right. Even Final Jeopardy. Not her. She couldn't have Alzheimer's"

Judy shared more as her omelet arrived skillfully balanced on our Waitress' arm right under my own order of French Toast. Kathy, our waitress, was good at her job. She was happy although you had to know it rather than see it. She smiled less often than she screwed up the orders. I liked her a lot. She knew our names, ensured our coffee cups stayed full, and didn't suck up for tips. She was a pro.

Turned out that most folks deny the evidence at first. Judy did. I did. Everyone I talked to about the disease since it invaded my life forever said they denied the truth until it could not be denied any longer. We fooled ourselves.

It helped to know I was not alone. I guess misery really does love company. I knew my Dad had Alzheimer's long before I admitted it to myself. It began with the Orange Juice.

It was June and I popped over to Dad's to have a cup of coffee with him. It was almost a daily thing whenever I was off work. The kids were in school. I headed to the house for what was to be a routine visit on a routine day.

I guess I got my creature of habit stuff from Dad. We both liked routines. There was something comfortable about sameness. He liked his coffee the same way each day just like I did. He walked every morning he could and wrote for a while after his walk. After he had his morning glass of orange juice that is. Then he wrote until I arrived. He used my arrival as an excuse to take a break and have a cup of coffee, maybe even a bagel and egg sandwich, with me. We would sit and talk and then I would go back to my day and he would go back to his writing.

It was just another morning. We sat on the porch, he in his chair and me in what used to be Mom's, and talked. How the kids were doing in school. What adventures they had been up to lately. How the car was running. Had he seen the latest blah-blah-blah. Life talk. Porch talk. Father-Daughter talk. Friend talk.

I went to refill my cup of coffee, and his, he drank his coffee even faster than I did, and he asked if I would pick up some Orange Juice for him when I was out later. A simple thing. I filled the cups and said of course I would. Me picking up stuff for Dad was part of our routine. I asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner and he thanked me but said he had salad made and would just putz around the house.

He did not usually accept the dinner offers. He just liked his time in the house. My dad was alone but he was very far from lonely.

I put a gloop of his condensed milk in his coffee and reached for the sugar bowl. Aside from a few coffee induced lumps stuck to the bottom, the bowl held little sweetness so I went to the closet for the bag of sugar Dad kept there.

The bag of sugar was right where it always was. The half-gallon of Orange Juice that was alongside of it definitely surprised me. I felt it. It was room temperature. Warmer actually. It had been here since yesterday. Yesterday. Yesterday? My father returned from his walk, had his morning glass of OJ, and put the container in the closet? Yesterday? He looked for it in its normal spot this morning and it was not there.

I stood by the closet for quite a while. Not sure how long but long enough that my father called to me from the porch. "Hey, what's taking so long? You going to Columbia to get the beans fresh?"

My chuckle was fake. "Be there in a minute, Dad. Have to refill the sugar bowl."

I took the container of Orange Juice and poured it down the sink as quickly and as quietly as I could. Then I put the container in the trash under the sink. Pushed it under some stuff so it would not be seen at the top. Knew exactly why I did and pretended that I didn't. Then it was time for coffee and to pretend it never happened.

It did happen. It happened again a few days later when he looked at me like he didn't know me. He popped back quickly that time and didn't say a word about it. Then it surfaced again and again in small ways. I saw them. Denied them. Others saw them. Tom asked if he was alright. The kids noticed too. They asked me. They asked me what I already knew. Dad was not alright. Dad needed to get to a Doctor and get to Doctor soon. I resisted as long as I could. Some would say too long. Others, the ones who understand it from the inside, would say so what. Time does not heal this wound. Time just exposes it until we can't pretend our world is the same anymore.

Dad didn't want to go the Doctor. He actually refused. For a while. He called me one day and just said let's go. I knew it was hard on him to do that. It was hard on me to have him do it. Off we went into the whole new place where people don't know their own name.
Doctor No

That was not his name but it might as well have been. He was one of the best and he didn't know what caused it, how to treat it, or how long it would last. What he did know was the shitty stuff. It was fatal. It was unpreventable. It did not have a pattern. Researchers were hard at work on it. Someday. Maybe. Hopefully. Today, here is the best you can do as your father deteriorates.

I will spare you the medical details and jargon. It was as effective as snake oil and covered by most insurance. The only fun Dad and I had at the beginning were the names of the drugs he took to slow it down. Maybe. Heck, what could it hurt? He tried the Exxon ones and Intercepts. Bang. Zoom. Gonna head you off at the pass Fuggeddaboudit. Grave yard humor before planting time.

He took the mini-mental exam and asked if that meant he was a mini-mental case. The Doctor liked his sense of humor. I did too. That was one of the first things to go. Mine went slightly after his.

The Doctor visits increased, We made them outings and stopped for lunch or dinner but always had breakfast. Jersey was the Diner Capital of the world and my Dad and I both loved Diners. So we made each run to the Doctor's an excuse to try some familiar places and some not so familiar places.

As test followed test and one medicine replaced another, time and the symptoms marched on. The familiar diners become unfamiliar for Dad more and more. The time he stared at the menu for a while and then just asked me to order for him, I knew the outings would be more about medicine than healing and I stopped the Diner stops.

Diners are basically Barber Shops that serve eggs twenty four hours a day. People that run Diners get things. They notice things. The one on Route 9 just above where Highway 35 and 36 kiss in Matawan is run by Diner people. They noticed as Dad and I went from occasionals to more than occasionals. They also noticed Dad went from an average Joe to the guy working hard to make mental ends meet.

I knew that each time I paid the check. The owner, a Greek Patriarch of the old order, tapped my hand and said thank you with his eyes somewhere between the fifth and the twenty fifth visit. The taps on the hand became sweeter as the visits became bitter sweeter. It helped more than he suspected and more than I knew at the time.

It touched me to see the floral arrangement at the funeral. A Diner sent flowers to my Dad's funeral. That makes for good eating in any neck of the woods.
Dinner Time

It was a surprisingly short adjustment to be living under the same roof with Dad again. Tom took great pride at how quickly our house sold. He claimed it was because of his great skills as a handyman. I actually had to agree with him. We asked for a price and sold it at that price within a week.

The kids didn't have to change schools. They liked their new rooms in Dad's house. They'd better. If the rooms were good enough for me, they better be good enough for my kids. We sold some of our furniture and scrapped some of Dad's, although we told him we sold it. The extra rooms added onto the back of the house took longer than all the rest of the process. Dad settled in nicely. We did as well when all was said and done.

At the beginning, it was really kinda nice. Especially at Dinner Time. It became my favorite part of the whole thing.

Dinner was a big thing for Dad. When I was just a kid, Dinner time was sacrosanct. Not that I knew what that word meant at the time. Once I learned what it meant in the fifth grade, Dinnertime at our house ended up being the best example for sacrosanct, before or since.

It was on the table at 5 o'clock. It was meat, usually chicken, potatoes in some form, and a vegetable. Dad came home from work fifteen minutes prior, stowed his lunch pail, kissed Mom, washed his hands, and joined us at the table as the minute hand on the clock on the sideboard hit twelve. It was an exact science. It did not include TV and the phone went unanswered the few times it even dared to ring at dinner time.

Dad took things first, passed them to me, I passed them to my mother, and she passed them to my brother. If the meal included chicken, the parents got the white meat, and my brother and I got a wing and a leg each. No questions. That was the way it was.

Table talk was predictable. Questions and answers about school, homework, brownies, baseball, or whatever thing was current at the time. It wasn't until years later that I realized the talk was all about my brother and me. I can't recall anything Dad said about his job unless it was as cold as a witch's tit that day up on the stacks. I didn't think to ask questions about his job and he didn't care to share.

Having Dad at the table again brought all of that back to me. It was nice. The kids seemed to like it, although it was new to them since dinnertime was far less sacrosanct until we moved back in with Dad.

Dad really thrived at dinnertime. He was engaging and fun to be around as the kids heard his stories about life when I was their age. It was a wonderful time. For quite a while. Then we were reminded about Fuggeddaboudit a bit more and dinner time became a whole new thing that was headed to the trash heap of life.

Soon, it became a crap shoot. A wonder if Dad would be there or if that quiet man that looked around the table in wonder would take his place. Soon, the kids dreaded coming to the table because the mystery went from cute to no surprise. Dad was there less and less.

I let them ease away easily. Homework that just had to be done. Dinner time moved from a specific place and time to a specific any place other than the table with Dad. Then Tom eased away and it was Dad and me. I couldn't blame them. It was hard for me to stay and hope that Dad would be there.

Over time, it was even hard to have him come to the table. It was like he forgot why he was there. Then he forgot to eat unless I reminded him. Soon, I had to make sure he remembered to chew and to swallow. Dinner time joined the list of things I did with dread.

Dad remained in his part of the house more and more. It was easier on him and the kids were actually happy, although to their credit, they never said that aloud. Dad would have liked the irony in that they and Tom started having dinner time together once I started feeding Dad while he stayed on his couch with the TV going. They inherited his dinner pattern and he inherited theirs. A sick and twisted changing of the Guard.

Soon, Dad just stared ahead most nights while I fed him just like you would a baby. My heart broke a bit more with each spoonful of peas. Dinner time disgusted me towards the end. Dad didn't seem to notice. He didn't seem to care what or when or where. He just ate. Most of the time. It was more out of habit than choice. Just like breathing.

I used the time to talk to him. It was really for me. To tell him the stories he told me and the ones I treasured. To flush out the details in my head and trust that somewhere, he heard them. For a while, he did. After a while, he didn't. It didn't matter. I needed to say them to the thing that contained my father. The thing that looked like him. I needed to share and pray and talk about what was. It was a one way conversation but it was still dinner time and I owed him that. I owed me that.
A Walk Around The Block

Sometimes I get sick of sameness. That passes quickly. Fuggeddaboudit is like living in the movie "Ground Hog's Day" but it is as far from comedy as things can get. People die at the end of this rat race of repetition. Enjoy your popcorn while you still can.

All that and even darker thoughts as I walked around the block with Dad. Not even around the block after a while. Just a few houses and he was pretty well out of it. I tricked him, sweetly. That has to be enough when dealing with victims sometimes. We would get just eight houses up the block. To the corner of the Dead End street. He would pause to catch his breath. I let him and then headed back where we came from as if we were headed in that direction when he stopped. He didn't notice.

So we walked. Used to be around the whole block. Then it slowed. Then it shortened. That it was skipped a few times. I didn't let it go more than a few days though. Want to say it was because he needed the exercise. Want to say it was because it was good for him to get out and see things other than what was in the house. Want to say that. Could say that. It would be true. The real reason was that I needed it. Needed to be outside. With him or without him. Wanted it to be with him for as long as that was possible.

Sometimes I had to drag him. One time, I had to scream at him to get him to go. Tom finally touched my shoulder to get my attention. Helped me see I was pretty much being a lunatic as I screamed at my father to get his ass outside and go for his walk.

Those screams were real. Every word was about the walk and why he needed it and why he would do it and why I would make him. None of the yelling was about that. The yelling was the dam bursting before I exploded in some other way. The yelling was dark and real and scary. I am glad Tom touched my shoulder that day. I was on the verge on really losing it. I walked alone that night. It was very rare for me to walk alone. Back then, at least. Now I walk alone a lot but that is whole different story.

The walks back then were about Dad. Dad and me just doing something other than sitting. Other than being inside. Other than being inside of Fuggeddaboudit. We walked and talked and waved and smiled. It was really nice. It was damn near normal.

After a while, it took longer to get him ready and then settle him back in the house than the entire walk took. That didn't matter though. It was still worth it.

After a while, there wasn't really any variation. This block we walked was loaded with memories. Who lived where and when they moved on. Who lives there now and what they do for a living. A block of stories and memories and connection. It was sweet and easy and rich. After a while, it was exactly the same and lessened a bit each day.

The fourth house down was my gauge of where Dad was. If he asked about Mister O'Malley, it was 1956 or so. O'Malley was long dead. He left the neighborhood long before he left this life but in the late 50s, the fourth house down was his place. He was a local politician. He held a rather unusual honor. He was the only politician my Dad ever liked.

If Dad wondered what Mister O'Malley was up to, he was in 1956 and I was just a kid. Maybe I was Mom. It depended on.....well it depended on the god damn disease, just like everything did. Dad would mention him and usually then explain to me that it was nice to know a guy could be in politics and not be a complete asshole. That was high praise from my father who said you could put all the lawyers and politicians into a pile of shit and it was just be a bigger pile of shit. O'Malley was an exception. High praise indeed. Plus, Dad liked his lawn.

When the Tanners were mentioned, we were in the 60s. They brought the house from the one close to decent politician on the planet and lived there for ten years or so. Dad liked the Tanners but didn't trust their son. I blushed when Dad talked about the Tanners. He was right not to trust their son. That too is another story and you are not gonna hear about that here.

Dad liked the Tanners. Gus, the father, knew, in my father's words, his way around an engine. My Dad thought he himself knew his way around an engine and reserved that compliment for those that really did. Gus Tanner worked on my Dad's car once or twice and "didn't charge a dime. Heck, I hadda almost force him to have a cold one with me.", Dad remembered people that shared skills and helped neighbors. I learned that lesson for myself looking for the best way to help Dad as the disease chiseled away at his brain more and more.

If Dad talked about the Renters, it was not about any one family in the fourth house down. In the early 70s, the Tanners moved and decided to rent the house rather than sell it. Since then, Dad spoke about the Renters in that house. Sometimes the families stayed for a few months, sometimes longer. To Dad, there were all The Renters. He didn't usually have many nice things to say about them. If fact, he had none.

The Renters just did not care. They did not take care of the place. They barely cut the lawn. There was about a snowball's chance in hell of getting them to paint the damn place. How the hell could Gus Tanner let that happen to what was such a nice home? O'Malley must be spinning in his grave.

The theme was consistent and let me know that Dad was pretty close to current day on his walk. The next house down was nice and was still "in the family". Dad liked that. When he said that, I smiled inside. Proud in a silly way. Proud that Dad's house was "in the family" again. Proud that I was there for him. Then I realized a terminal illness brought me back home. Proud disappeared quickly when the man holding your hand was dying. I smiled though. Happy to be there with him on the walks.

Sometimes, a walk around the block is a heck a lot more than a walk around the block. Sometimes, a walk around the block is enough. Dad and I even headed to Brooklyn once to walk around his old block in his old neighborhood. Something inside of me said it was important to do that. A walk into yesterday. It was Dad's idea. Sort of.
The Old Neighborhood

Dad brought up Brooklyn more and more as the disease ate away chunks of him. Sometimes it was reminiscing. Sometimes it was being there. Either way, I learned things about his youth I knew and a heck a lot I didn't.

We lived just a few hours from where he lived as a child. Avenue N in Brooklyn. Just a short hop in the car but it might as well have been on the other side of the planet instead of on the other side of the Outer Bridge and the Verrazano. We just did not go to visit. Had not been there for over twenty years.

Hearing Dad's stories made me want to go. To go to those places and feel them through Dad's eyes. To be with him there when he shared his memories at the place where they happened. To be part of his past before he was part of mine.

It started as an idea and moved quickly to an obsession. Dad was lukewarm at first. "It ain't the same, Mally. Most of the folks are gone. The neighborhood changed so much. Likely most of the things I knew aren't even there anymore."

I wore him down. Soon, he was on board for a day trip. A Father-Daughter outing to his old neighborhood. It was our primary topic of conversation for several weeks. The more we talked about it, the more excited we both got about it.

The day arrived. Along with heavy rain. I almost went anyway but finally realized that was more stubborn than smart. Spent the day moping. Moping. Like a spoiled kid that did not get her way. Dad was a little disappointed and then turned on "The Price is Right" and forgot all about it.

At the dinner table, Tom said, "Sorry you two didn't get to go today. Just not the right weather for a trip to Brooklyn." Dad replied, "Brooklyn?"

Perhaps the rain was a good thing that day. I slipped the trip a week and we went for Plan B. Actually it was Plan A on Day B but that mattered very little. Both of us were excited again.

That morning, Tommy was sick. He had a slight fever the day before. That morning, his slight fever was far from slight so I kept him home from school. Dad and I stayed with him. By mid-morning, Tommy's fever broke and he was much better. Dad insisted I make up the couch in his living room so the two of them could be together.

Soon, Dad and Tommy watched "Ghostbusters" and laughed like two kids on a field trip. Tommy later told me it was one of his best times with his Grandfather. Brooklyn waited another week.

Finally, we actually headed out. A wonderful spring day and all was right with the world. Brooklyn, here we come.
Yesterdays

The lessons that day were on the street as well as on the way to lunch. Dad's old house looked a lot like it did when he was a kid. Being there helped him. He was present that day as we stood in his past. It showed in his eyes. In the lilt of his voice. It was wonderful to hear him. To see him touch a tree and share about standing there as a youth. To see the boy that was now the man and soon to be a memory as his memories sprang to life on a street that was someone else's now.

It may sound sad but it was something else. It was important. Important for me to realize how human my Dad was. He was a kid with hopes and dreams and little clue about what was ahead. He spoke of his mother and his brothers and his God's-gift to-the-universe sister as well as friends. Some names I knew. Some I heard for the first time that day. We walked around the block and each step held a memory that he gifted me. It was sweet.

Just up the block was the church he was supposed to attend on Sundays. He spent more time avoiding Mass than he did attending it. I heard the stories of his shenanigans for years. As we knelt in that church that day, the stories came to life. My father might have skipped Masses but he respected what drew the collected to that building and others like it. We sat on the wall outside and the boy spoke to me from within the man.

Dad was in those days as we sat there. The days when he hung outside the church and enjoyed nature, shiny cars, and quiet neighborhoods. While he wondered why he felt better outside than inside. While he decided he belonged somewhere other than where he was told to be. He questioned rules. He said no until he really wanted to say yes. He became a man outside that church. He became the man that became my father.

It was one of my best moments with my father. He was boy sharing his stories and I was his friend. I kinda wish there was a Mass that day. We could have skipped it together.

Our service lasted over an hour and was sweet communion. We got in the car and headed out to find a bite to eat. Dad gave directions, pretty exact ones. He had a place in mind and I made the turns as he navigated. It was nice to sense he knew exactly where to turn even after all these years. When he said to park alongside a graveyard, I wondered if Fuggeddaboudit just invaded our day again.

"Let's stop here for a bit, Mally. I just need a few moments."

We headed into some yesterdays marked on Tombstones. Dad visited his Mother, his Aunt, several cousins, an uncle, and a father he hated most of his life. I headed to Brooklyn to learn more about my Father's yesterdays. He had a few yesterdays that he spoke of for the first time that day.
Grave Lessons

This was one of the older parts of the cemetery. Pretty well planted. Decaying above and below the ground. Some here were dead to the world while others danced the slow death of being forgotten. We meandered with some purpose through tombstones and vanishing memories. I listened as my father spoke of things long silent. Things dark at the time and darker over time that tasted the light of sharing the first time that day. Family drama. Who did what to whom? Who disappointed so and so. Routine life things that some carried to the very end of their days. By the sounds of it, some carried beyond even that. People like my father's father.

Dad rarely spoke about his father. He shared some of the reasons that day. There was a hurt in the words that the boy spoke. A hurt real and deep and dark. At first it saddened me. Then it shocked me. As Dad continued to talk, it helped me.

It helped me see how much we mean to each other and how what we do not do can be as important as what we do. As my father spoke, he let go of things deep inside. Things that festered too long in a man that remembered what the boy felt. Dad forgave his father that day. Dad forgave himself that day. Dad said good bye that day. Maybe it was hello. Maybe it was see you soon. Maybe it was I am afraid and just want to do what is right. More likely, it was all those things and more. Dad went into that graveyard that day because he had to.

I thought the trip to Brooklyn was for me. It was really for Dad. He had some unfinished business and had to do it in person. Just him and the ghosts that haunted him in his silence for a few decades. The graveyard wasn't haunted. Dad was. Right up until he let go of the hurt. He did and I was there to witness the healing.

We had lunch at Coney Island. Not that it mattered really. We had enough to digest already. We stopped more out of habit than of need. Coney Island was not the same as Dad remembered it. It was not his anymore. He grumbled a bit about how much it had changed. Guess he had he fill of yesterdays by the time we got to Nathan's. Yesterdays can be a place where people hide from the future. Dad faced his yesterdays in a graveyard. The stop at Coney Island was just for some French Fries. We didn't talk much about yesterday's anymore while we ate. We had enough yesterday's today.
War Cries

Somewhere along the way, I declared war on Fuggeddaboudit. Why not? It invaded my father's body, my life, and already knew it was going to kill my father. I might be slow but I knew a war once I am sucked into it. So in I went.

Just like most folks that are invaded by this vile enemy, for a while, I thought my father would be the exception. The one that beat the odds, proved the research, found the cure. As you already know, that was not the case. He died. Just like the millions of others before him and who knows how many that follow. Someone said it is the sixth biggest cause of death in the world. I wondered why the heck that mattered. Death rankings celebrate last place. Dead was dead and this was personal.

At first, I fought conventional warfare. Doctors. Clinics. Drugs. The standard battle against an invulnerable enemy. I kept one foot in that approach all the way through to the end. I believed. Hoped. Prayed. Then I accepted that conventional warfare was a fool's errand. Even the Medical Community admitted they were clueless. In their own way that is. The "let's just keep trying stuff until something really does work" approach. No promises. Just prescriptions. They pumped out drugs of false hope and high profits and insurance companies sanctioned it. So down the rabbit hole I went and waited for my father to pull the dirt in over him.

That is not to say there was not hope. Hope just came from other places. Places not on the approved but futile path covered by insurance. Hope surfaced in what I would have considered borderline wacko before desperation opened me to alternatives. First I dabbled by asking. Then I tested the waters via computer. Soon I dared to enter Natural Food stores, a gathering place for open minds. In time, if I suspected that a vegetable strainer hooked to a D Cell Battery licked under a full moon held a cure, my head was in an Almanac to know when the moon was fullest. This was my father's life and I decided that if you couldn't tell me what did work, shut the hell up about what didn't.

At first, I looked exactly where I was told not to. Aluminum and how it might have caused Alzheimer's. It was an urban legend and denied as essentially, poppycock. Poppycock. One of the many Doctors I talked to about the disease actually used that word about the alleged tie of Aluminum to the advance of Alzheimer's. He was so arrogant in his tone; I knew that was the first place I would look.

Along the way, I discovered a lot of interesting mysteries and met some of the most wonderful people I ever encountered.....before or since. One pointed me to B-12 shots and how that could help. He already heard there was no cases of Alzheimer's in India and, like me, wondered why that was not investigated more aggressively. Another introduced to me to Turmeric and how to ease it into my father's diet. Have been using it ever since and it feels better each time I do. Like I am flushing a useless pill each time I stir Turmeric into my spaghetti sauce.

The folks at Good Earth knew exactly where the Ginkgo was. More importantly, the clerk suspected why and spent thirty minutes with me over a cup of herbal tea. In the process, she mentioned several other possibilities folks had shared, cautioned me that what she shared was anecdotal, and then just listened as I spoke of what I knew and wished I knew. What stunned me the most was that in the entire time, she did not try to sell me a damn thing. I have shopped there ever since and likely always will.

Soon, I was making Chinese Herbal teas for my father and myself. He loved watching me do that. I liked going to the Herbalist. It was like going into a Harry Potter movie or some Alchemist's shop. They accessed, filled a bag with twigs, bark, and heaven knew what else, and sent us on the way for less than the price of half of an Interceptor pill. I brewed it up at night and Dad said it smelled like some witch's concoction. We drank our tea and laughed as we did. It might not have worked. It was a helluva more fun than anything that came in a capsule.

Some things in the Homeopathic world did look a bit like the stuff that came from the mainstream medical community. Still, I opened to the possibilities. Baryta Carb 30. Others. I researched and asked and explored. One foot in the approved and sanctioned medical approach, the other on the path of hope that bordered on desperation. One didn't promise yet showed hope. The other promised and showed less hope over time. One Doctor made the mistake of commenting on my efforts in the alternative healing in exactly that way. He said, "It makes you sound so desperate."

I looked at him and let the words echo. "It makes you sound so desperate." I felt them and what they meant to him and from him and from everyone like him that said them or thought them or, even sadder to accept, believed them. He hit a nerve; dead on. So I responded.

"I am desperate, Doctor. I am so damn desperate I keep coming back here knowing it is not doing my father any damn good. THAT is how desperate I am."

Still, I returned for the next appointment and the next appointment right up until the last appointment. Still, I filled the first prescription and the next prescription and the ones after that. The Doctor was right. I was desperate. Along the way, I realized I was losing.

In my panic, I tried anything. Reiki. Prayer. I wanted my father to live. Along the way, I met many people who fought the same losing battle for their loved ones. I also met the Magic Man.
The Magic Man

The Magic man arrived in my life at one of my darkest moments and changed my life forever. He showed me how much people need touch and that there is fundamental good in the world. All that....and he didn't charge me a dime. Even when I pleaded with him to take money. Go figure.

As seems common for most life lessons for me, I resisted at first. Had to be forced into it. I thank my husband and that same clerk at Good Earth for making me go to the Magic Man. Quite frankly, things would have turned out a lot different had that not happened.

Tom knew I was stressed. Heck, anyone that saw me knew I was stressed. Tried to hide it. Failed. It was just before I decided to quit my job and take care of Dad full time. Somewhere between discussing the possibility of a putting him in a Care Facility, checking them out, and me realizing there was no way, Tom gave me a gift certificate for a massage.

He gave it to me for National Kazoo Day. It said so right on the card. Happy National Kazoo Day. Before that, I didn't even know there was a National Kazoo Day. January 28th. Turned out that National Kazoo Day was a turning point in my life. That is the kinda stuff you just can't plan, plan on, or make happen. It just has to come along all by itself. The chain of events that led me to my first massage and the Magic Man still amuse and amaze me.

Tom and I were shopping at Good Earth one day. Must have been just after Christmas. The first Christmas tainted by Fuggeddaboudit. Dad had some fun that holiday season, although much of it was as a kid playing with the Lionel trains. That was nice to see in a sick and twisted way. He played with the trains for hours and seemed quite content to be 10 again for a while. Actually made the holidays feel like home even though Dad was far from being Dad while choo-choo'ing away.

The hard part was Christmas Morning. One of Dad's worst days to that point. He didn't recognize anybody and refused to come out of his room. I tried. Tom tried. Even the kids tried. We tried all morning. The kids, to their great credit, did not complain about the delay of gift opening. They just waited and hoped while I tried to get Dad back to the moment. He did not make it back that day. We celebrated Christmas in the living room while he was in La-La land by himself. It was a shitty day wrapped up pretty and nice and flooded with memories....one of which would be a holiday staple forevermore. No matter how hard I tried to forget it.

I put on my game face and sucked it up...fooled no one, not even me. Alright, I think I fooled Dad. La-De-Fucking-Da. Happy Holidays.

A few weeks later, we began the new year in a bit of a funk. Quite a bit, actually. The new year began with little hope and less happiness. Just a reality at the time when illness is the center of existence on a daily basis.

Tom and I went shopping at Good Earth. That became more and more routine. Somehow things seemed better there. Healthier. Happier, somehow. We were checking out and the clerk, the same one that gifted me with a cup of herbal tea and time, noticed my funk. How she saw through my best façade stunned me. Yeah, right. I realized later I was more walking wounded than person. She did not say anything to me but, very discreetly, handed Tom a card. She put her finger to her lips indicating it was a secret. A secret he honored and gifted to me later on National Kazoo Day. A free massage.

Tom went back to the store without me to ask her about the card. Tom is a man of the world and wondered why the heck someone would give away a massage. He wondered what the catch was. He admitted later that if anyone else handed him the card, he would have trashed it. It was from the clerk though. Jen was different. If she gave the card, Tom knew it was for a reason. He went back to the store the next day to ask her about it. She had that day off so he went back the next.

I chuckled when Tom told me the story later. He felt like a stalker. He went back to the store, tried his best to be inconspicuous, and waited for Jen to go on break or have some free time where he could talk privately. It was about 45 minutes of pretending to read labels and browse before he cornered her. Jen told me later she knew exactly why he was there and thought it was cute that he was so nervous. Turned out that Tom pretty well sucked at being inconspicuous. I knew that for many years.

He, as nicely as he could, asked if the card was for real. What was the catch? Jen expected the question and said there was no catch. It was a free massage from a man trained in Reiki, Swedish massage, and even some Reflexology and Acupressure. He considered touch his ministry and gave it away. Literally, gave it away.

Tom was leery. Jen understood. She said she sensed how stressed I was and that a massage would help. Jen gave Tom the card for that very reason. She went on to say how she went to the same therapist once a week. Jen suggested he get a massage himself and then decide if he should gift me one. Tom did not get that massage. He did decide to gift it to me. That is, he decided after discussing it further over a cup of herbal tea with Jen.

That image cracked me up. Tom drinks coffee; lots of it. The very idea of him sitting in Good Earth and having a cup of tea with obviously alternative Jen gave me an idea of how much we had changed since Fuggeddaboudit arrived. I still laugh at the idea of that meeting.

Jen explained the benefits of bodywork to Tom. He learned that it moves lymph and that is, in Tom's very own eloquent words, "a good thing". Jen must have been very persuasive. By the time she was done, Tom, the man who has yet to get a massage, understood the benefits and background and more about massage. He understood so well that he was very excited about the prospect of me having a session. In fact, he insisted on it. His sales pitch included a plea that I "had to go". It was important for my health.

So I went. Thanks to Jen. Thanks to Tom. Thanks to Tom's insistence. I went to Jason for my very first massage. A ninety minute session of touch. It worked. It was the first day of the rest of my life in regard to healing and more. Jason was much more than a person who understood touch. He was truly a Magic Man. I went for one session and then for more.

Time there kept me sane. It was a place of refuge and insight. For me, Jason became the Magic Man. Massage became my Sanctuary. Turned out that Sanctuary arrived just in the nick of time. Fuggeddaboudit came closer to claiming two victims than I cared to admit.
Sanctuary

I needed a place to hide from Fuggeddaboudit. A place where it didn't exist. Even if only for a moment. A minute. An hour or so. A place where Dad was not about to die and where my faith in hope and miracles still breathed a bit. I did not know it at the time, want to admit it now, and even understand why....but I wanted to run away. Far, far away and not come back. So I did run. To Sanctuary. A place I needed to be so that I could be all I needed to be everywhere else.

Silly me. I thought I was just going for a massage.

Called and made the appointment and drove over to Jason's house. Arrived 30 minutes early and was unsure what do to so I parked down the street and waited. Was I supposed to show up early? Right on time? Fashionably late? I eliminated late. Jason's time was to be respected. As for early or right on time, I compromised and showed up 5 minutes before my scheduled appointment.

He greeted me warmly and led the way to his session room. It was a lovely room. Gentle colors. What I came to think of as massage music was already playing softly in the background. It was decorated like one of those New Wave places would be. Zen things and all variations thereof.

At the time, I did not realize what each item meant and how each contributed to the whole. I just knew I felt comfortable. Learned later how carefully, and easily, Jason ensured that would happen long before I or any of his blessed guests arrived. Much of what I learned later about how that place felt and why it felt that way carried over to my home now.

Jason showed me the room and explained a bit about the session. Then he led the way to what he called his porch. A glass enclosed room that was, in Jason's own words, his favorite room on the planet. It was easy to see why. It felt like heaven. Simple. Beautiful. Peaceful. Dignified. Unpretentious. The session room was a wonderful place. Jason's porch was even better. It was home. Home to anyone there. I felt like I belonged and it was my first time there. It felt like that every time since as well. Jason's porch welcomed me.

We spent over ten minutes talking. Jason explained he needed to understand more about me to guide the session that day and every session thereafter. He had me fill out a questionnaire, much like I would for a Doctor's visit. This one was different. It asked about medical conditions and the like. It also asked what I needed that day. Just like that. What do you need from the session today? The question stumped me, at first.

The form was also different in another way. Jason stayed with me the entire time. Not the "over the shoulder, hurry up so we can get on with this", staying. The "I am right here if you have any questions, take all the time you need' staying. He sat on a chair nearby and looked out the windows like he all the time in the world and I was the only thing that mattered to him.

I looked at the question again. "What do you need from the session today?"

How about a big helping of whatever the heck Jason was on? How about a place where Alzheimer's is cured and Dad smiles and knows why he smiles? How about time off from death watch? How about a place where I can cry? How about a light in the goddamned darkness? How about a place where pills are not? Just not. How about a break? What the heck did I need from the session today?

Thought about that for a while. More than a while. Thought and felt and wondered and then realized. I wrote down my answer. One word. Peace.

I handed the form back to Jason. He looked it over and smiled.

"Peace. Cool. That helps me more than you know. Let's get started, Mallory."
Pieces Before Peace

The path to the Magic Man was not a well paved yellow brick road. It was a mortared, cratered, road of what else can go wrong before things feel right again. Piece by piece, my life changed. Dad slipped further and further away. My best efforts to help fell shorter and shorter of the mark.

On the teeter-totter of life, Fuggeddaboudit weighed a ton and things tipped in its favor. I was up in the air and smashed to ground with little choice but to try and survive the ride. Something had to change and change soon if this was all going to work. Turned out every aspect of my life had to change. I just didn't know it, yet.

The first major change was just after Christmas and just before my first trip to the Magic Man and Sanctuary. It began when I accepted that Dad needed full time care.

Dad's condition worsened. I was afraid to leave him alone even for a short time. First we left him alone a bit and then less and less. It was just a reality. Dad was unpredictable and it became painfully obvious that he needed someone around all the time.

We tried schedules, took Dad with us whenever feasible, and relied on family as well as friends. Still, it stretched us to the limit. Tom and I both worked, the kids were just too young to be tasked with that responsibility for longer than short periods, and even the help of family and friends left gaps. We tried. It was me that finally admitted something needed to be done. I began the search for what I did not want to find. Part of me hoped Dad would just get over it. Guess I still believed in miracles. In the meantime, reality said contingency plans were in order.

Thank Goodness for the Alzheimer's Association. I became a frequent visitor to their website and called them more often than Fat Tony called his bookie. The staff had a bottomless supply of patience, a wealth of information, and compassion that helped more than they could even know. Any doubts I had about if Dad needed full time care or not were answered when I filled out the questionnaire linked to the Alzheimer's Website.

Continence. Mobility. Cleaning. Cooking. Using the telephone. A black and white list that reminded me that Dad was not able to fend for himself. That questionnaire was an in your face moment for me. It was time to arrange around the clock care for Dad.

There were many options for care facilities. Some even qualified as Alzheimer Specialty Care Units. Links showed local facilities, who covered what, and what services were offered. Tom and I researched before stepping foot in any of them. Internet. Phone calls. Government reports. Better business bureau. Doctors' recommendations. Medical insurance agency's recommendations. AARP. Nurses' recommendations. Friends' recommendations. We asked and asked and asked again.

Six prime candidates made the first cut. Two of those were eliminated based on further research that showed less than sterling coverage, bad reports, or logistics issues. The others made our list of affordable, feasible, and possible. Tom and I headed out to check out care facilities. Along the way, I saw my truth. Thanks to Mrs. Johnson in 11c.

One care facility was cut from the list on the first walk-thru. It was replete with issues. The glossy brochures and state of the art website were less than accurate. The staff was short, the place was dirty, the patients looked lost and lonely, and, quite frankly, it stunk. Eliminating this one was actually the easiest part of this process.

The other three all showed promise, although I realized I was really looking for things not to work out. Even though I was checking out places, it still just did not feel right to me. This was my father.

Each facility had competent staff, clean rooms, and more. The staffs went out of their way to be friendly and were very professional in all our encounters. One, Shady Tree, stood out in all areas. We visited each, and then I visited each again, and was drawn to Shady Tree. It was just a bit further from home than my job. That meant I could go there before work as well as after easily. It also meant I was close if something happened during work hours. The staff to patient ratio was better than the others and the food they serve actually looked inviting. The activities schedule was full and the patients looked better than the other two facilities. They looked engaged. Shady Tree became the choice.

Dad did not know any of this. He was home and less and less home every day. I decided not to spend his few moments of clarity discussing the prospect with him. It was better to wait until the decision was final. Basically, I was a coward.

A coward that became a fixture at Shady Tree. Two visits most days, three on some. It was the place. So in I went. All was well. Until the day I saw Mrs. Johnson in 11c.

Had seen her several times prior. Fuggeddaboudit had her in its grip. More advanced than Dad's...not by much. She seemed to be doing well. One day, I popped in after lunch and wandered the halls. One of the nurses, Lillian, saw me and walked with me for a while. Actually, I walked with her. She made her rounds and we chatted. We passed room 11c and I saw Mrs. Johnson.

The look on her face was one I knew well from Dad. Disoriented and lost. She was sitting in the recliner in her room and the panic was in her eyes. The worst kind of panic. Quiet panic. Her eyes screamed as she sat there. Screamed that she did not know where she was nor what to do about it Dad got that look more and more.

He calmed down eventually. I had to lull him back. Slowly. Get to him so he heard me as a friendly voice and then as someone he could ask. Yes, I knew that look.

Mrs. Johnson had it. I turned to Lillian to say something. Lillian was cornered by someone; I think his name was Robert. She was adjusting his wheelchair. Seemed the brake was stuck and he was a bit frazzled. Lillian handled it very well. She tended to what was in front of her. She cared about Robert. Meanwhile, Mrs. Johnson was deep in the darkness of a place I knew my Dad went more and more. A place where he needed me the most. A place no one should visit and even fewer should stay.

Lillian finished with Robert and headed on down the hall. I paused, called to Lillian, pointed her in the direction of Mrs. Johnson in 11c, and went back to quit my job. My dad would have a full time care giver. Me. Fuggeddaboudit could have another piece of my life but I would be damned if it would get a single moment of him in the darkness that I could prevent.
Surprise

I headed home and wondered how to break the news to Tom and the kids. I just quit my job. A job I had for over 18 years, really liked, and that was pretty important to us financially. How do you slip that in between how was your day and pass the potatoes, please?

It was Wednesday. Prince Spaghetti Day. A carry over from my youth, we had spaghetti just about every Wednesday night. Dad was in a pretty good spot while I was cooking dinner. He watched the news and knew it was Katie Couric, another tip that he was with us in the moment. He had a salad earlier. I kept one cut fresh most of the time. The kids knew and he had a rather large bowl of it just before the news. I kissed his head as I took the bowl from the TV table and let him watch the news. He smiled. A good night.

Tom arrived home and settled in. The kids finished their homework and joined us at the table, my request. It seemed right that Dad was in a good spot. Dinner with Tom and the kids might be exactly the right time to break the news about the job.

A good plan. A tougher execution. We spoke of the day. The kids updated on school. Tom mentioned a business dinner he had to attend tomorrow night. We ate. I waited for the right transition. The opening. Exactly the right moment to lob in the bombshell. Dinner was just about over and it had not arrived. My feet got colder.

What had I done? What was I thinking? I just walked away from a good job with good benefits. Unemployment was up and I just walked away from a job. People were struggling to make ends meet and I just cut our cash flow in almost half. What the heck was I thinking?

The kids rose to clear their plates and I saw the moment would be far from perfect but it had to be now. I asked them to sit down for a moment.

They did. I began with a line from every movie and TV show I ever saw where someone needed to make an announcement. "I have something important I need all of you to hear."

The rest was pretty standard, as far as major life announcements went. Stated the facts that I quit work and would be taking care of Dad full time. Just like that. Did not build the case, explain, or justify. Just said it. Took all my strength to do that. Couldn't imagine saying more. My pulse was like a jackhammer already.

"Cool, Mom". That was Tommy's verdict.

"Wow, Mom. That is way cool." Seemed that Michelle agreed.

I waited. Tom added. "I'm proud of you, Mal."

That was it. The kids waited a bit and asked to be excused. Tom sat in this chair for a moment, and then he came down, took my plate, and kissed me on the head as he did. "Everything will be all right."

He headed into the kitchen.

I was stunned. "Everything will be alright?" Didn't he understand what I just did? Didn't he know how life changing it was? Eighteen years of work and it ended less than two hours ago? Just like that? "Everything will be alright?" I headed into the kitchen after him.

"Tom, I really quit. Really quit. Dad needs me here. I just can't put him in a home. I just can't do it. It has to be me...."

Sometime later, it was probably ten minutes or so, I stopped rambling. We were at the dining room table drinking coffee. Did not remember getting it, pouring it, tasting it, or even seeing it, but it was half gone and tasted good. Realized Tom had not said a word. He listened as the worry about money and what I had done spewed forth. He just listened.

I was spent. He was still silent. "Tom, did I do the right thing?"

He smiled. "Yes."

He grabbed my hand gently across the table. "Mal, you did exactly what you should have done. What I knew you would do. What you had to do." He smiled again.

"The kids expected it. I expected it. We just waited for you to do it. It is what makes you, you."

I was at a loss for words. "Tom, what are we going to do about money? We needed that paycheck."

Tom went over to his briefcase, took out some papers, and came back to the table. He showed me how much we had in mutuals and savings. He explained how much he needed to withdraw to keep things afloat for the short term. It was all laid out. We were good for the rest of the year and then would cash out all remaining retirement assets after the first of next year if we needed. We had enough to get by, kept all the medical coverage, and just had to cut some expenses around the house. Tom had everything mapped out already.

He smiled and answered my unasked question. "Had it ready for about two weeks now, Mal. You focus on your Dad now. Full time. We can, and will, make this work."

I love my husband. At that moment, I loved him more than ever. Things were going to be alright. Things were going to be alright. My entire life just changed and things were going to be alright. Dad would not be alone. I would not be alone. Together, our family was going to make sure things were going to be alright.

Tears were my dessert that night. Good ones for the first time in a long time. Tom had a special dessert that night too. I felt a little saucy that particular Prince Spaghetti Day.
New Routine

Things were indeed alright. The new routine came quicker than I thought it would. Almost immediately, Dad was more present more of the time. He understood I was home for him. He did not like that I quit my job because of his illness. He loved that I quit my job to be with him. We became quite the pair.

The quality of the time we spent together held Fuggeddaboudit at bay for quite a while. Dad's improvement confirmed one thing very quickly. I did the right thing quitting my job. My priorities were right. Dad and I had the best time of our lives together and that trumped any payday.

Dad followed me around the house when I cleaned. That meant a change to my cleaning routine, not that I really had one before I quit my job. More of a way than a routine. With Dad as a shadow, I did not multi task. One room at a time. I did everything with him right there. Sometimes he just sat in the room to be near me. Most times he talked about things. He made suggestions, asked questions, commented on things in the room, looked out the windows, and pointed things out that should be done. Quite frankly, he was a pain in the ass. I loved the time with him still. I felt him. He just liked being there, around me. Around motion, around life. So I cleaned. Slower and slower. He liked being there. Very quickly, I liked having him there. Sometimes I dusted the same area over and over. Other times, my actions were more pretend than effective. It cleaned me more than it did the room. Cleaning became hanging out with Dad time. My house may not have been much cleaner but it was one heck of a lot warmer.

Brainless TV time became one of my guilty pleasures. One that still shocks me a bit. Low budget and low maintenance, I reluctantly filled gaps in the routine with TV time for Dad. Soon, I really did watch the shows right along him. My passion for Plinko is totally his fault. He loved "The Price is Right". Me? I didn't know what Plinko was, then sucked at it, and then cracked the code. I got damn good at it. It takes a lot of skill and really great shopping skills. Soon, I won almost every day. Right there in Dad's living room.

He and I had coffee together after everyone was gone to work and school. We watched the Today Show. The Price is Right came on later and, I have to be honest, we built most of the schedule around it. He would have insisted if I had pressed him. Since it was important to him, it was just the right thing to do. That is my story and I am sticking to it.

Time watching TV was actually my assessment time. It gauged the day. Some days, Dad was just not fit for anything but sitting around the house. Other days, I engaged him in things that ranged from checkers, photo album reviews, reading to him, or just talking. Most days, at least at the beginning, he was present and that meant any excuse to get him out of the house while he was still able.

Inside is inside and outside is needed as well. So, I planned outings. Me and Dad. Father-daughter field trips. As with most plans, some were hits and some were misses. With budget cuts, outings had to be relatively inexpensive...preferably free. Outings also had to be something that meant options. The option to walk and do things or to just sit if that was needed that day. Walks to the beach fit the bill perfectly.

Living less than a half-mile from the beach had its advantages, especially on a tight budget. Dad and I walked to the beach a lot. We would go there and sit. Maybe even walk a bit further. We both loved the water and enjoyed that we had time to be near it.. Other days, he came with me to the stores. Once, he even came with me to the Beauty Shop. That was a onetime deal. Not because of Fuggeddaboudit. Because Dad was bored silly. He almost bolted when I wanted to stay for a pedicure. My toes waited that day.

We did rides to visit friends but that had more misses than hits. Seemed folks had lives and did not just sit at home waiting in case we decided to pop in for the first time ever. Go figure. Tried a bus ride to the City. One time. Details too gory to even mention. Tried a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Then I hit a home run, outing wise.

Dad and I went to the movies. It became our time. The best time we had together. Matinees. On a weekday! Cheaper prices. Less people. A few times it was just him and me. A theater all to ourselves. We'd be silly and pretend it was a private screening. Dad would clap him hands and say "Roll 'em" like some big shot. He tried to time it perfect. He enjoyed that so much I cracked up. My Dad. The Hollywood Bigwig.

The Hollywood Bigwig who smuggled in candy with his daughter cause the theater prices was borderline extortion. Dad and I waited until the movie was on to eat our clandestine confections. He liked his Milky Ways. I varied but chocolate was usually involved. Dad and I were together yet in the movie. In the movie.

I got that from Dad. He immersed in movies. Always had. Went right into them. Shut off the world and lived in the story. He did more than watch movies. He lived them. He was able to totally suspend reality. He was there. I learned that from him. We really enjoyed movies.

With Fuggeddaboudit in the mix, it was extra sweet. A place to be where we forgot about Fuggeddaboudit. How ironic is that? A place where we were somewhere else and it didn't exist. That was worth the price of admission alone. Even at the evening rates. Dad and I went to the movies two times a week for a long time. Monday and Wednesday became pretty standard. Monday to begin the week with a self-indulgence long denied by work weeks. Wednesday to make that day matinee AND Prince Spaghetti day.

It was a wonderful new aspect of our routine. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Dad slipped away more and more but it seemed slower. I realized the importance of routine for Alzheimer's patients. Routine gave the road of life grooves. Grooves that reminded victims on the path when they lost their footing. Dad still lost his footing but Prince Spaghetti on the plate in front of him reminded him it was Wednesday when Fuggeddaboudit hit mid-bite. A Milky Way wrapper in his hand brought him back to the show rather that spending time at the circus.

Hope arrived for me in this war. Hope in the form of routine. Drugs came and went. Doctors' advice was hit and miss. Turned out the best weapon against Alzheimer's was routine. That is a prescription that doesn't need health warning. I armed myself to the teeth and went to war to keep my father with me.

Fuggeddaboudit invaded my world and was about to see that I was not going down without a fight. Step right up and see the show. Two tickets, please. Two shows a week, matinees on Monday and Wednesday. Hurray for Hollywood.
Model Son

Movies were a great way to spend time with Dad, keep him busy, and enjoy myself a bit in the process. It was more about being with Dad rather than taking care of Dad. A more balanced thing. Much easier on me on all levels.

With the new house, changes to the schedule, and my focus on Dad, I worried a bit the kids would feel left out. Turned out to be just the opposite. They saw more of me and me of them. Win-win...although they might disagree with that at times.

From my point of view, it was nice being June Cleaver for a while. I was there to greet Tommy and Michelle when they came home for school. They updated me on their day and seemed genuinely happy to see me.

As our new routine became more, well, routine, other family members included Dad as part of their everyday life. At first, it just happened. Along the way, it became important. Important memories. Important insights. Important time.

If Dad was not with me when they came in from school, the kids went back to say hi to him. They asked him about his day and he asked them about theirs. Most days, Michelle stayed with him until dinner. It became quite common for her to do her homework on the floor while Dad watched TV and/or talked to her.

Tommy's time with Dad came about later. In a different way. All on its own. Tommy did his homework in his room. That was his way. He talked with Dad every day but spent very little time with him. He was more of a private kid. Video games were his thing. He loved his Granddad. The two of them just did not have much in common.

That is, until, Tommy showed Dad his Gundam models. Dad had never heard of Gundam. Truth be told, nor had I. Tommy discovered the series all on his own. Soon, his wish list for Christmas, birthday, or any day included something Gundam. Gundam Wing. Gundam X, Gundam Y, and Gundam Z. Gundam went from "what the heck is Gundam?" to" how many Gundams can there possible be?" real quick. Tommy loved building these intricate models of futuristic whatever the heck they were.

Tommy's interest began simple. He asked for a Gundam, explained to us, as if we were brain dead for not knowing, and we got him one. That was sometime in a long distant past. Now, we just accepted there would be a new Gundam and Tommy would hope to get it.

At dinner one night, Tommy finished and said he was going upstairs to work on his model. Dad perked up like a kid that heard the magic word. "Model? What model, Tommy?'

Until that night, I did not know my Dad build models as a kid. Actually, I guess I did. I just did not know he really loved building models as a kid. That night, Tommy uncovered a passion my father and he shared. Models. Dad was about to learn what a Gundam was. Tommy was about to have a new friend. They left the table together and went to Tommy's room.

Two hours later, I checked on them. I found two boys. Working on a model. Together. Dad did not know what a Gundam models were before dinner. Two hours later, he loved them.

Tommy found out about Corsairs, Spitfires, Bombers, and a 1935 Deusenberg Model J, with a Rumble Seat. Dad had his own version of Gundams when he was a kid.

Pretty soon, Dad and Tommy spent an evening or two a week together. There were even several Saturdays where the two of them worked on models as a team. Dad learned about Gundam. Tommy learned about classic autos. Both learned about each other.

My son and my father became friends. Friends that hung out together. Friends that got excited when they started a new model, passionate when building the model, and proud of the final product. Tommy loved my father. He also liked him. The models brought two ten year olds together....one just happened to be in his seventies at the time.

As Fuggeddaboudit claimed more of Dad, the models became a place where his age was less important. He regressed and the passion of his youth was already there. We headed Alzheimer's off at the pass. It was more than therapy. It was a victory. I got to see the boy my father was and he hung out with my son while I watched. Take that, Fuggeddaboudit! Up yours!
Homework

With models and movies and walks to the beach, Dad had quite the busy schedule. He also had quiet time. Rarely alone time though. His days of being alone were less and less. That was more my choice than his. It just did not feel right, or safe for that matter, to leave him alone too long. Luckily, the kids helped out.

Michelle's homework time became her time with Dad and my chance to cook dinner without him in the way. Just a reality. Michelle helped. She babysat her Granddad and did her homework while she did. Multi-tasking at its best.

As a freshman in High School, Michelle had a fair amount of homework. She came home from school, grabbed a snack, she was a big fruit eater, and then headed to Dad's living room with her back pack in tow. She sprawled out on the floor, scattered her books hither and yon, and chatted away with Dad while she worked.

Whenever I peeked in on them, which was several times each day, Dad was watching her. She could be talking, reading, thinking, daydreaming, and noodling...and Dad just watched. The look on his face was familiar. Familiar like one of those things you remember but can't quite put your finger on. It stuck with me. There was something about that look I knew.

One day, I heard Michelle reading aloud to Dad. It was from a hard cover book. Turned out to be "Atlas Shrugged". That epic by Ayn Rand was Dad's all-time favorite book. There was my daughter reading my father the book he called the best book ever written. I leaned against the door jam and enjoyed. Enjoyed the sound of her voice and beautiful enunciation. Enjoyed how she said Dagny. Enjoyed the mesmerized look on Dad's face. Enjoyed that his all-time best book just got a bit better since his granddaughter read it to him. Enjoyed the moment.

Then I went up to my bedroom and cried.

The tears built slowly, emerged as sobs by the staircase, oozed from my eyes as the bedroom door closed, and burst forth in raking agony as I threw myself on the bed. Cried long and hard. Went deep inside the tears and came out the other side. Came out with answers. Came out cleaner and clearer and stronger. Just the way Dad taught me.

"Tears mean you care, Mally Pally. Just make sure you care about the right things. Then cry your eyes out."

Dad was a man that understood tears. He was brave enough to cry, man enough to admit it, and father enough to teach me. I learned another key to really good cries all by myself. The Five Whys.

Learned the Five Whys in a management class or seminar or something. Take any problem, ask five Whys about it, and you have the real issue that needs to be addressed. Tried it, it worked, so I kept on using it. Used it one day after a really good cry and took my tears to a whole new level. I used them. Learned from them. Welcomed them.

Cried my eyes out that day. Punched the pillow. Kicked my feet. Screamed into the blankets. Cursed like a truck driver with a stubbed toe, impacted molar, and two flat tires. The works. A world class, rib aching, tear duct emptying, cry your soul out through your nostrils festival of emotion. Then I paced the room and peeled it back. Owned it.

Homework. It was homework for crying out loud. Homework. She read to him. He liked it. Big deal. Why the tears? Cause he's gonna die? Well, Duh. Why? Why the tears? Homework? Memories? Memories of homework? Yes. Good memories? Why? Cause Dad and Mom made you do homework? Cause Mom is gone and Dad is about to be gone? Yes. Why? Cause they taught you and you taught Michelle and she reads to him? Yes. Because it is homework? Maybe.

Homework. It is just homework. An obligation for crying out loud. An obligation. Something you had to do. They made you. Teachers made you. An obligation. Yet, you learned to like it. Michelle learned to like it. Tommy learned to like it. It was an obligation and you learned to like it. Why?

Belief. You believed in Mom and Dad. You believed they loved you and knew what was good for you and all of that. You believed in them. Obligation plus belief became responsibility. Homework became responsibility. Homework became something you believed it. You trusted it was a good thing. A wise investment of your time. In yourself. It would pay off later. When you learned whatever it was you were supposed to learn.

Homework. Mom and Dad made you do and it became something you believed was the right thing. You taught Michelle and Tommy that same lesson. Now Michelle is doing her homework with her dying grandfather and reading his favorite book to him while you cry your eyes out. Cry your eyes out because the circle closes. He taught you, you taught her, and she spends time with him. An obligation that she accepts and trust is right.

Homework. I laughed aloud. Homework indeed. Michelle read to Dad because it was the right thing to do. She learned that from me. I learned that from him. That is how home works. With that I laughed and realized the tears were tears of thanks. Things were right with the world. These moments were exactly right. Lessons learned and lived and shared. Home really does work. Home sweet home.

We went out for dinner that night. It was not in the budget but I couldn't afford not to. Sometimes you just have to celebrate the moment. The moment before the world stops just like you know it will. Sometimes you just have to celebrate the now. Of course, I ensured the kids had their homework done before we left.
Breakfast of Champions

Things settled in on the home front. The daily routine was more than just comforting. It became important to me and to Dad. For Dad, it was safer. Easier. He got up in the morning and knew the days more by feel than thoughts as Fuggeddaboudit inched deeper and deeper. It showed in his eye indicator.

His eyes were confusion thermometers for daughter turned nurse. They let me take his level of awareness. I checked his temperature first thing in the mornings. This morning it was over Cheerios.

Dad was not much of a cereal to begin the day kinda guy. His start of the day involved chickens and pigs. He was stubborn about it. He was also vocal about it this morning.

"Cereal? What the heck kind of a breakfast is that? I ain't a school kid. A working man needs a working man's breakfast."

"Well, when you go back to work, Dad, I'll fry you up some sausage." I poured Cheerios into his bowl. His eyes said he had just about all the cards in his deck this morning.

"Cheerios? At least we could have some Wheaties. Champions eat Wheaties. Mickey Mantle ate Wheaties."

"Well, Pop, the Lone Ranger ate Cheerios. Let's comprise and have my Breakfast of Champions today. Alright, Kimosabe?"

He smiled. I would have breakfast for lunch with him later. An egg and bagel sandwich sounded good and I hadn't even sliced the banana for the cereal yet. Even talking about breakfast made me hunger for it. I was my Father's Daughter. Breakfast was the meal of champions for this dynamic duo. All was well in Gotham City today. Dad's eyes said so.
Seeds Of Change

It began small. A packet of seeds. Tommy brought them home from school. Snow peas. A gift from a guest speaker at his school Assembly. It was Friday. A Friday that would live in infamy. I know it was Friday. We had pizza that night. Right from the freezer to the oven to the table. One of my specialties. We gathered at the table and things went from innocent to life changing quickly. In the blink of an eye. Should have seen it coming. Didn't. Life is like that.

"Anything interesting in Assembly today, Tommy?' Words from my mouth to his ears and heard by everyone there. Even my sweet father.

There was banter and exchange. Some talk about the Assembly. Dad asked a few questions. Questions that mattered only because a grandfather asked them. Answers that filled a square framed by love. It was all so innocent.

A guest speaker. Gardening. A gift. Tommy went for another slice of pizza. He returned with it along with a packet of seeds. He ate the pizza and handed the packet to his Grandfather.

The warning bells did not sound. If they did, and they should have, I just didn't hear them. Dad had an expression for times like this. He called it those moments when you have your head firmly up your own ass. In hind sight, that was exactly accurate.

Oblivious to the storm that moved quietly from my son's hands to my father's mind, I smiled at the sweetness of the gathering. Smiled as my father evaluated the packet before him and said, calmly, "Spring Peas. Cool. Are you gonna plant them, Tommy?"

That is when I should have spoken. That is when I should have changed the subject. That is when I should have stood on the table and showed them my single whip Ta Chi move followed by a two and a half gainer over my chair. Anything except what happened next. Because then I did something utterly and absolutely stupid that would stand in the annuals of "what the heck was I thinking" forever.

Tommy did not answer. Michelle continued to eat. Tom sat there quietly as I opened my mouth and changed everything I knew forever. Words from my own mouth.

"That's a good idea. Maybe we should have a garden in the backyard. That would be fun. Wouldn't it?"

Dad sealed my doom with his next words. "I would like that, Mally. I would like that a lot."

We were on our way to Abilene. Thanks to yours truly and one goddamn free packet of seeds. What the hell had I done?
Perfect Storm

Ah, the maybes about that day. Maybe if it had been any day other than Friday. Then maybe school and weekday stuff would have slowed it. Maybe if the weather just stayed closer to winter than to spring. Then maybe we would have watched movies or read or complained or lost momentum. Maybe if we had pizza out that night. Then maybe we would not have continued the discussion and headed to the yard in mass to see what should be planted where that very evening. Maybe if I had shut my big fat trap my yard would still be that one with green spots between the crab grass and remained just a place to mow when shamed into it.

The maybes lost to the call of Mother Nature, a budget that said vegetables in the back yard were more necessity than luxury, and four people who were amazed at how excited Dad was about snow peas and garden Gnomes. We were up early the next morning and what passed for grass for many years turned into that pile of stuff that used to be where the corn would be planted. Saturday turned to Sunday and the crew was back at work. Sunday turned to Monday and it didn't matter. The maniacs found time at night after rushed dinners to plot and dig. They were back with full gusto the next weekend. Suddenly, there was a unspoken deadline that the grass must go.

The tidal wave of momentum spilled from the front yard to the side. We went from patches of kinda green to dirt, all dirt, and nothing but dirt, I swear to God. Tom grew an environmental conscious, my children were replaced by eco-zealots, and Dad smiled as the destruction spread like a plague of righteousness. The yard of my youth became Ground Xeroscape.

Several weeks later, my loving family was aghast at even my suggestion that we slow down. They looked at me like I was clubbing baby seals with limbs ripped fresh from the rain forest when I gingerly mentioned it. Things had changed and it was my civic obligation to get on board. The free packet of seeds became Save the Planet. I was the Oil Cartel headed by Judas Iscariot to even suggest things were out of control. The Snow Pea War was over. I donned my silly straw hat and got to work.
Hosed

Once I admitted defeat, things flowed much easier. That spring became that summer and a packet of snow peas begat a less than bumper first year garden. The back yard of my youth was gone. In its place was a hang out. A hang out for birds, ladybugs, worms, two kids when they remembered, my father, myself, and Elmer, the garden Gnome.

Dad picked out Elmer all by himself. It might have been because he was so ugly or perhaps because I protested so much. His ear was already chipped, he was hidden behind two and a half pallets of marked down fertilizer, very fitting if you asked me, and he was marked down four times and still overpriced in my book. Dad insisted. I resisted. The sales clerk heard. The sales clerk gave Dad his first Gnome. Free. How special. Elmer came home along 12 tomato plants, one pair of garden gloves, a happy father, and a resigned daughter. Dad said it was kindness. I said the sales clerk wanted to get rid of the Gnome and that was the only way.

The kids loved Elmer right away. Dad smiled smugly. The "Where's Elmer?" fan club quickly and summarily trumped the "Why Elmer?" faction. I lost another battle. Tom liked Elmer too. Of course, he did. He moved on to destroying the side yard and left me in the back with Dad, the kids, and one eared Elmer. The garden took on a life of its own and Elmer was part of that life. An aggravating part of that life because Elmer moved.

I rarely saw who did it. Caught Tommy once or twice but I know Michelle had a hand in it too. Tom even got into the game but the main player was none other than Dad. My father and his buddy, Elmer had a lot of fun that first summer. Dad had a traveling Gnome for a friend.

Dad watered the garden. It became his thing. First thing in the morning, he headed into the garden to check the crops. Hose in hand, he tended the earth. Somewhere between lefty loosey and righty tighty, Dad moved the diminutive pest. It was like Elmer's great getaway. "That corner by the peas and strawberries feels just right today." "This spot by the sundial is just perfect. Thank you." "Ah, standing on the tree stump gives me a much better view." " Oh, yes, haven't been by the window well in a long time. Put me right in it, please. She will love seeing me peep in the window at her." The two of them plotted. Elmer instigated and Dad delivered. He watered the garden and I was hosed each day thanks to the Gnome everyone loved. Everyone by me, that is.

The first year of the garden was more miss than hit. The corn came up nice and green and then hardened before the corn itself actually arrived. Tom and Dad discussed the lessons they learned by, in their very own words, "losing that first crop." First crop? When did we become Ma and Pa Kettle? When did our back yard morph into the back 40?

The tomatoes aimed for Roma and hit cherry, the peppers were basically deformed, and the strawberries went from buds to duds. The one crop that did well, the onions, collectively our least favorite vegetable, were almost an afterthought. Four watermelons in September marked the finale of our garden feast that first year. The garden was a hell of lot of work and cost more than the items produced. We overestimated the yield and underestimated the work. The price we paid for that free packet of snow peas continued to escalate.

Dad loved it. That was enough for me. Next year's crop would be even better. It probably says that in the Farmer's Almanac....every year.
Outside In

I felt it before I saw it. The garden moved to memory as Fall moved to reality. Outside pushed me inside and, quite frankly, I didn't like it. Got used to mornings and days and evenings and even nights outside. Got used to Dad watering and then sitting as he enjoyed nature ten feet from the house. The fence meant he was safe. Safe to wander in and out where he was as long he stayed in the garden. Short sleeves went to long sleeves and then to sweaters and jackets hinted it was almost their time. I felt it first. Then I saw it on Dad's face.

He sat in his favorite spot in his favorite chair in his favorite room....and looked sad. Sad it was too cold to be outside. Sad there was nothing to water since the earth said it was time to rest. Sad that the birds headed elsewhere and took their song with them. Sad to sit and watch life through the windows.

There was lots I could have done. Bundled up and braved the weather. Settled in and welcomed the even colder that was on the way anyway. Comforted Dad with talk and platitudes. Wallowed there with him for a while. Lot of possibilities. Instead, I stood in the doorway and felt him. Felt his emotions, his state of being, and his life.

Mom was gone. He felt that every day. The garden was gone. He felt that right now and wondered how far away spring really was. He felts losses past and losses future. He felt the season closing in on him. He felt the routine that now included daily reminders of the war in pill form. He felt....alone.

Outside I went. For the first time, I moved Elmer. He came inside. Dad smiled when he saw his buddy and knew the two of them would wait for spring together. I hated that gnome. I loved my Father more. Love trumps everything....even hate. Even winter. Even Fuggeddaboudit. Love trumps. Elmer began to grow on me. No one should be left out in the cold.
Winter of Our Deep Content

That winter was the best ever. Mostly because nothing happened. Dad did not die. That didn't happen that year. Dad did not get much worse. That happened later. The finances did not go from barely enough to how are we going to make it. Those cuts, the ones to the bone that drew blood, happened between that winter and thanks for the insurance payment, Dad. Nothing happened that winter. It was the best winter ever.

I learned how to do nothing and enjoy it. Dad and I did mostly nothing and it was better than anything cause we did it together. The clock became something we looked at rather than danced to. Days of reading and being and breakfast for dinner or not at all moved to other days of Godfather meets Scarface and heads to the Casino marathons. We left the holiday decorations up until February and the Lionel trains even longer.

The kids pretty much tended to themselves and I didn't notice until later. I thanked them then and still do. Tom saw beyond what wasn't and enjoyed the view. I didn't care, he didn't care that I didn't, and that showed how much he really cared. Tom still gets random special desserts for the dinners I just didn't even bother to make that winter. Dad and I were more like a couple. I fell into that like an old pair of shoes. Nothing felt wonderful that winter.

Five-hundred rummy. Dad only won when he cheated. I won every time we played. My reading voice became his sleeping pill at nap time. Tucked him in and read on without him. Started back up when he woke. Didn't know if he missed stuff or just didn't say he missed stuff. It didn't matter. It really didn't matter.

Nor did schedules or bills or medicines or anything else. What mattered was that he and I were together. Dad became my friend and I became his. Fuggeddaboudit brought us together and would rip us apart...that winter, we just were.

The snow came. We played in it only once. Snow angels. Snowman. Snowballs. All before the kids came home. They joined it. All before Tom came home. He joined in. Then we all had soup and hot chocolate and colds for three days. It didn't matter. Winter came. We kissed it. We welcomed it. We watched it from a warm house with warm hearts and death seemed years away. Nothing happened that Winter. It was exactly what I needed cause a whole bunch of bad shit was about to happen. That Winter was the best of times. I wish it lasted longer. Glad it lasted as long as it did.
April Fool

The joke was on me. I thought we were doing well. Two years since the initial prognosis and we beat Fuggeddaboudit. Beat it by changing our lives totally. Held it at bay by our sheer will power. Things were going to be alright. Winter ended, spring came. The garden was back in work. I was hopeful. Things were good.

April First....a day of practical jokes. Well, har-de-har-har. That day was as far from funny as you can get and the joke was on me. It began innocently. Dad went to the garden to water. He was gone for a week. Oh, I found him in the garden. Less than an hour after he went outside. His body, that is. He was gone. I tried to forget that look in his eyes. It didn't work. It still haunts me. The look of the clueless. The look of vacancy that rips hope apart and raspberries it down your throat. My Father looked at me like I was another species. Like he was another species.

Took him back into the house. Started the new routine. The routine that became checklist later but was adlib based on panic and heartbreak that first time. Step One-Calm him down and see if he comes back on his own. That lasted just over an hour. Meds. That was Step Two but blurred to Step Three, call the hotline, quickly that first time. I was still a novice to "how far gone is he this time?" and that whole concept. The Doctor said not to panic, wait and see, and to call him to let him know. He said to "wait and see how things turn out." That was bullshit. Tom found the note on the table and called me at the hospital when he got home. He asked why I didn't just call him on my cellular phone....the same cellular phone he just called me on. "Cause I was in panic, Tom. Excuse the hell out of me." It might have been something stronger but that was pretty much in the ballpark. I was not at my best. After all, this was my first true wrestling match with Alzheimer's. It won that first time. It had the home court advantage. I was new at this.

I know now the Doctor's advice was right. Now. Not then. I was virgin then. They should have a virgin checklist. The checklist that said have her bring him in since she is going to bring him in anyway. The checklist that said appease her...this is the first of many so appease her. They should have had that checklist but they didn't. I didn't know the routine. The idea of routine emergency was unknown to me at the time. The idea that Dad would disappear in plain sight for days and even weeks at a time was foreign to me then. They should have had a checklist for virgins. They didn't.

They admitted Dad for observation. They did not think it was necessary. I decided otherwise. They brought in the portable bed and Dad and I had a sleepover. A thousand dollar plus sleepover that was overpriced as well as overkill. Virgins are like that. We expect things to be special. We are not used to being screwed at random times and waiting to see how things turn out.

Dad came back over a week later. No word for over a week. No knowledge of where he went. No postcards from the edge. The first words out of his mouth were, "What's for dinner?" Men!
The Worst Of Times

That was just the beginning. The beginning of the end. The end was almost four years away...yet death came and stayed on April Fool's Day. From then on, death was a moment away each minute of every hour of every day right up until it left....with my father. That is the insidious nature of Fuggeddaboudit. Dad's first big bout jolted me back to reality. Real reality. For two years I accepted reality and really did not have a clue what reality was. April Fool's Day said here I am. The next year sucked.

I was alone. No one else knew. No one else understood. No one else could possible understand. Who can imagine the darkness? The shame. Who could understand how low I fell? That year I began to pray. Truly pray. That year, I prayed for my father to die.

The loving daughter prayed to a God that abandoned her to end her father's life. On my knees, in my heart, I prayed. First for healing. Then for a miracle. In time, my prayers were more realistic. I prayed for him to die. End his pain. My pain. Our pain. It disgusted me. It shamed me. What daughter prays for her father's death? How could I? Yet it happened. Inside. Alone. In my hell, I prayed for him to die so I could get on with life. My smile went from fake to non-existent. I hated life because death arrived.

Every day was a crapshoot. I couldn't sleep, hated to wake up, and dreaded the unknown of every single moment. Couldn't make a difference, tried to make a difference, and failed to make a difference. Thought tomorrow would be different and tomorrow was even worse.

Doctors were clueless. I wished the illness on their loved ones. Maybe then they would have passion instead of platitudes and more pills.

News angered me. The world was broken and went right on spinning. The richest nation in the world spent more on war than healing. We killed for oil and paid with youth. We wasted our future while our past withered, alone, and underfunded.

For two years I deluded myself. Believed there was hope. Thought we had a chance. The joke really was on me. Now reality came home to roost. I was alone. With my dirty secret. I wasted my lessening moments with Dad angry over my lessening moments with Dad. No one would understand. I was absolutely and utterly alone. Right up until I found out I had company. Lots of it. I just hadn't dared to ask.
Cleaning the Closet

Five years of bills. It might have been seven. Didn't matter. Shoe boxes of them. Dad's bills. Boxed. Rubber banded. Credit card receipts, bank statements, cancelled checks....the trappings of personal finance.

We keep them in boxes. Dad did. I did. A lot of folks did. Not sure why but it was clearly important. It proved we paid our dues. Did our due diligence. Amassed our stuff, paid for it...it made us fair and square. It made us real. We signed on dotted lines. Had to have been here. Here is the proof. Bundled for anyone to see. Dad had boxes of them. In the closet. Not anymore.

We needed the room. His stuff and our stuff under one roof meant something had to go. The closet was jammed packed with his stuff and his stuff had to make way for our stuff. Tom did his part. He took all Dad's stuff out of the closet and put it in the spare bedroom. Everything out, only the right stuff back in. It was our system. Tom's part was to take the stuff out. My job was to decide what went to trash, what went to charity, and what went back in. Tom's job this time included keeping Dad busy. Dad involved in this process would have been a disaster. I was not in the mood for any more disasters.

The shoeboxes did not take up much space. Could have trashed them. Should have trashed them. Instead I shredded them. By hand. A piece at a time. Rip. Auto mechanic, paid in full. Rip. Mortgage. Often, early, and done. Rip. Electric bill. Rip. Check to this. Rip. Check to that. Rip. A month here. A month there. Rip. Old news. Old bills. Old life. Rip.

It blurred. Rip. Tear. It blurred to sobs and tears and tearing and gnashing of teeth. It flew across the room. Cursed. Done. Over. Too soon. None of it really mattered. None of it really mattered. The good credit score. The paid in full. The thank you for paying on time. I threw them across the room. Hands full of nothing. None of it mattered. It was garbage. It was trash. It was just taking up room. None of it mattered. That is why I cried. That is why I cried myself to silence. That is why I called Jason. That is why he saw me right away. The closet could wait. I needed a massage. I needed something to get away from all this trash. I headed to Jason's.
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Jason was much more than a guy that gave massages for free. The family began to call him "The Guru". They did not know what he did, how he did it, and even why he did it. What they knew was that they were vegetarians by default and that I was more and more like a character from "Meet The Fockers". Jason changed my life. He changed theirs in the process.

He did it for free. In fact, he refused payment for the massages. Massage was his ministry. Instead he had me read books. "The Mad Cowboy". "Fast Food Nation". "The Path Less Traveled". I learned about Peaceful Warriors, Shamanic Healing, Chakra balancing, Yoga, Ta- Chi, and much more. Jason assigned readings and research after each session. I read, researched, and reported back at the beginning of the next session. I learned things I would not have learned and made choices I would not have made. Jason was evil. My "free" massages cost me cheeseburgers, consumerism, and much more.

My favorite bodyworker was the Master of "Bread of Shame". Jason guilted me into change. When studying Kabbalah, assigned, of course, by Jason himself, I learned about "Bread of Shame" and realized that was the coin of the realm for Jason. Bodywork was his ministry. That part was true. Mister Evil withheld the fact that change was what I put into his collection plate each week. My time with Jason was not free. It was freeing.

The family felt the change. They heard how the bodywork made me feel better and how my energy levels were higher. At the dinner table, they tasted the changes Jason stirred in me as I became vegetarian and they did as well. They were allowed meat and such. They just knew they would have to get it themselves and make it themselves. I realized what my dinner choices did to myself and the planet. They ate veggie burgers, salads, and potatoes in just about every form. I realized it was time to walk more and use my long forgotten bike. They were along for the ride.

My sessions with Jason stirred up a lot more than my lymphatic system. I opened to alternative healing, environmental impact, and everyday choices that were smarter, healthier, and easier overall. Fuggeddaboudit changed every aspect of my life. Thanks to Jason, many of those changes were good ones.

The family began calling Jason "The Guru" long before any of them met him. "What has the Guru got you doing now?" "Oh Oh, when are we going to start wearing beads and singing Kumbyah before dinner?" Jason became a force of nature that was not always warmly embraced.

Dad had his only special joke about my time with "The Guru". He called it "my getaway".....from him. He was right. He knew it and I knew it. That made it alright.

"Headed to my getaway, Dad." It was freeing to be so honest. The truth does set you free. Dad understood and I liked the honesty of it.

Dad knew all of that yet still resisted going for a massage. Then one day, Dad said something that took things to a whole new level. My father said, "there must be something to that massage stuff, Mally. You are much happier now."

Me. The very person that prayed for him to die. Much happier. I realized Jason kept me sane. Wanted that for Dad. Dad not only deserved that...he needed it. I moved into action. Convinced Dad to try one. He resisted yet said he might be willing. When "The Guru" heard, he jumped right in. Jason said that if Mohammed would not come to the mountain, he would bring the mountain to Mohamed. The guise was an invitation to dinner. Jason showed up early and did a massage on Dad before we ate. It turned out to be the first one of many. It also introduced us to the "Where's Waldo?" game.
" **Where's Waldo?"**

Dad de-briefed us on his first massage over, in his words, his favorite new-fangled meal thing. "Them fake chicken patties, mashed potatoes, and corn. The closest thing to real food Mally makes anymore,"

It was a wonderful dinner. The massage did something to Dad. He was much more engaged. Much more himself. We all noticed. Even Dad. He joked about it.

"Heck if I had known it felt this good, I would have gotten them a long time ago. Before I became Waldo."

"Waldo?"

He and Jason laughed. I remember that laugh to this day. It was deepest, richest laugh I heard from my father for years. It was a wonderful and real laugh. It was hearty. A good hearty laugh over a vegetarian dinner after his first massage. I did not get the joke but I got the laugh. Dad was happy. Happy to be in on the joke. Happy to be so energized. Happy to be. That part I got. That part we all got. Dad let Jason explain the joke that he shared with "The Guru."

Dad talked with Jason during the massage session. That was pretty common for first time sessions. We passed the plates and ate while Jason explained. It was common for the first few sessions to be talking ones. Later, the sessions settled in and talk became rarer. The therapist and the client knew each other and talk was less. Dad and Jason talked a lot that first session.

Jason said he knew Dad had good times and bad. He knew that sometimes he was present and other times very far away. He knew because he worked on other people with Alzheimer's. Jason knew that where the person was varied. He thought of it as "Where's Waldo?"

Just like the picture books, Waldo is in every picture. Sometimes it just takes a while to know where they are. Jason played "Where's Waldo?' and waited patiently in each session to find the sometimes well hidden hero.

Dad loved that. He thought it was a great way to laugh at the situation. Make it a game. He and Jason roared as they shared. "Where's Waldo?" The kids joined in. It was so accurate. Michelle said it was true. Sometimes she did her homework right with Dad there and never did find Waldo that day. Turned out we all had Waldo moments. Dad was Waldo. Our own Waldo. We knew he was there somewhere. Sometimes we just had a hard time finding him. Sometimes we had a hard time even knowing where to look.

Dad laughed and said, "Hey, don't blame me. I do my part. I am in there...waving like crazy. You guys just can't see where I am. Heck, you can't even see when I am! When's Waldo? The Alzheimer's version of the game." We all laughed. We laughed at the game that suddenly had some new images. Waldo was the hit of dinner and traveled with us to the porch for dessert. Dad summed it up...."Hey, as long as Waldo hasn't left the building, keep looking for me. Alright?"

We agreed to keep looking for him. Jason came by once a week after that. He even came by more often if Dad needed touch. Dad looked forward to the sessions. He was more present after each massage. Sometimes the sessions lasted two hours...sometimes less. Jason stayed with it until he found Waldo. He worked to find Waldo each time...even when Waldo hid more and for longer periods. Jason never charged for the sessions. We couldn't pay him enough anyway. The sessions were priceless. Jason stayed for dinner most nights. I insisted. We all insisted. Even Waldo.
Jason The Great

Jason was magical. We saw it first hand as he gifted us with more visits. He spent more and more time at our house. He was a blessing. An answer to a hell of a lot of prayers. He was a healer that healed us all. Jason was truly magical.

Some would consider the amazing comfort of his sessions as his magic. I know I did. Tom did, too. Tom thanked Jason many times for keeping me sane. It was a demanding performance to be sure. Others witnessed how well Dad held up as medicines failed and the disease advanced. Other victims at the same doctors and in the same clinics fell much faster. With the same futile promises of healing via the drug of the month, Dad lasted almost two years longer than most. It was Jason that did it.

Jason made sure bodywork worked. He used every weapon in his arsenal of healing. Massage, acupressure, Reiki, reflexology, trigger point, and whatever was needed...Jason fought a better battle against Alzheimer's than the Surgeon General and his army of highly priced mercenaries. Jason kept Dad alive with healing touch. Some, in fact most, would call that magical. The truth of our Guru's power was far greater than even that. Jason The Great did something heretofore thought impossible. He did it without even trying. Jason got Dad to spend some money. Willingly.

Dad was famous for being frugal. He was beyond frugal. Dad was out and out cheap. Before Fuggeddaboudit, it was the family joke. After the invasion, Dad tightened his already well-worn belt even further. We all did. Dad just had a head start and bragging rights for being there first.

My father rarely spent money, avoided debt in all forms, and quit buying anything but essentials since disease upended our financials. In the years since Dad was diagnosed, he only spent money was there no way around it. That was a good thing. We barely made ends meet and would have been in bankruptcy without medical insurance and a damn good prescription plan. Then Jason arrived and the miraculous happened. Dad spent money on something unimaginable before...and wanted top of the line. My father, King Tightwad, marched into the room one day and insisted we go on a field trip. Dad said it was time to buy a massage table.

At first, I blew it off. He asked me first thing Monday morning. I figured it more of a whim and would be forgotten before Prince Spaghetti day. Dad asked again on Tuesday and added a deadline. He wanted it before Friday when Jason came for his session. Dad insisted on buying a massage table so Jason did not have to, in his words, "...lug his own". Off we went...Daddy and Daughter....to surprise the Guru.

It was my old Dad. The efficient one. He had the make and model of Jason's table. His list included the specific brand of massage lotion, three sets of sheets, minimum 500 thread count, an incense holder, a large box of Nag Champra, three CDs, Pure Moods and two Enyas, and a CD player. The man who was beginning to forget the day of the week gathered all of this information by himself.

I discovered he did not ask Jason at all. In fact, that was essential to his plan. He wanted everything to be a surprise. "That boy is one of the nicest boys I ever met. I want him to have stuff at the house. His stuff. It's only fair. He gives us so much."

Dad was exactly right. We made two trips, substituted an Enigma for one Enya, and used a CD player from the bedroom, but when Jason arrived on Friday, we were all set. Our house now had a therapy room. The short lived sewing and craft room that morphed into a place where we hid stuff until we knew what to do with it became Sanctuary. Right under our roof. Our gift to our very own gift giver. It was my Dad's last demonstration of efficiency. Wow. What a finale.
The Hard Part

Before Dad's finale, things got harder. A lot harder. So hard, it hurts to even remember the darkest parts. I handled them in ways that honor my Irish blood, as diluted as it is since so and so married so and so and then they married so and so and all those so and so's were from places different than Ireland. Still I had Irish blood so I did what the Irish do at their very best.....I joked about the darkest stuff.

Just beneath that humor is stuff so dark I tried not to face it. Decided not to share it. Not here. Not anywhere. Then realized we can joke about it but it is still dark and very real. Real enough that I went through it and others went through it and, until they find a damn cure, others will still go through it. That ain't a damn joke. It is not something to hide in humor. It is something to face. I came face to face with it one day when changing my father's diapers.

Changing diapers is not a dark thing. I changed a lot of diapers in my days. As a mother, I saw right passed the shit. Saw if my child was healthy. Saw if my child needed more of this or less of that. Saw the beauty of changing diapers because it was something parents did until our children don't need it any longer. Changing diapers for my children was one thing. Changing diapers for my father was something else.

It was not a rite of passage. It was a rite of passing on. It was everyday evidence of death. It was not a good thing on any level. Still, I did it. It was needed. He needed it. I needed to help him. So I did it. Yes, I thought it was hard. Then I just began to do it. It moved from disgusting to tolerable. Then Dad did something that made it really hard. Really, really hard.

Dad got hard. My father. Got hard. While I was changing his diaper. Things went to a whole new level of low that day. I was speechless. Didn't matter. It happened again a few days later. Then it happened again. Soon, it was part of the experience. Each diaper contained a surprise that broke my heart a little more. Each changing made me ashamed. That made me mad. That made me Irish.

It was just hard at the beginning. Then it got to be a joke. It had to be a joke. A sick and not twisted joke. A damn, bizarre, freakish, you have to got to be shitting me, joke. So I did what the Irish do. I confronted the evidence and spit in its eye.

"Well, I am happy to see you too, Dad."

Only it wasn't Dad. It was that man that needed his diaper changed. That man that look forward to being changed. That being that used to be my father and was now something else. A being in need. A being I still loved because I loved my father.

I never expected to see that. I never really got used to seeing that. Part of me hated seeing that. Part of me knows others saw things just like that. Things that made them ashamed and mad and helpless to do anything except put up with those things right along will all the other shit that comes with Fuggeddaboudit. Yes, it was hard. I changed a lot while dealing with it.
A Pinch In Time

Yes, I got mad at my father. Yes, I wanted to smack him. Yes, I wanted to shake him out of this crappy excuse for a life he was leaving behind a bit at a time. Didn't do those things. Instead, I pinched him. Hard. Often.

It was the best thing I did in my battle against Fuggeddaboudit. Discovered my secret weapon one day, it was actually two or maybe even three days, when I dropped a milk shake. Ah, the wonders of healing insight.

Dad was my excuse for milk shakes. I liked milk shakes. Especially on summer days. Especially in the afternoon. Dad like them, too. So, I excavated the blender from the appliance graveyard. That "I know we have one and it is around here somewhere" place right alongside the juicer, two electric can openers that still kinda worked, a mixer with one beater where there should be two, and some sandwich making thing that crimped the edges of grilled anythings and should have been re-gifted rather than even opened. Dug out the mixer, put it center stage, and put on ten pounds. All for Dad. He deserved it. Dieting before death seemed less important at the time. Death watchers trumped weight watchers in my book. So I had Milk Shakes. Lots of them.

It was just another afternoon. He was asleep. I was hungry. Decided to treat him to a milk shake. On the way in, I dropped both of them. He was startled. I was startled. Cleaned up the mess but noticed something in the process. Dad woke up as Dad.

Didn't have to ease him back and introduce him to himself. That was getting close to common practice each time he woke up. Morning. "Good morning, Dad. Remember me?" Afternoon. "Have a nice nap, Dad? Remember me?" Cat naps. "Hey there, buckaroo. Welcome back. Remember me?" Usually, he did not remember me. Not right away. Each waking was a surprise. Lately, each one was a bit of a disappointment. Sometimes, Dad did not join us. Maybe after his next sleep. It was a crap shoot and the dice were cold and getting colder. Until I dropped the milk shakes and the odds shifted in my favor a bit.

Dad woke up with a jolt. A jolt for me. "Huh? What was that? Are you alright, Mally?" Wow. Right name. Right response. Right time. Worth a few fallen milk shakes anytime.

Thought about it that day and the next. Dropped a dish two days later. On purpose. Made sure it was a cheap one but dropped it hard. Right on the hallway tile. Close to where he napped. Again, he woke up quick. "Huh? What was that? What happened, Mal?"

I apologized. I was not really sorry. I was anything but sorry. I was ecstatic. Dad woke up as Dad again. If it meant every dish in the house and then the neighborhood, I would wake him that way each and every time.

Looked it up on line. No theories. No test groups. Nothing about sneaking up on Altimeters. No one said they had success in tricking it. Talked about it to Tom. He liked my enthusiasm but thought I was, in his words, nuts. "Nice that it worked a few times. Don't get your hopes up, Mal."

Too late. My hopes were up. Screw the milk shakes. Damn the dishes. My hopes were up. For one brief shining moment, my hopes were up. On this ride until they die thing, hopes up are to be celebrated. Mine were up. I was about to sneak up on Fuggeddaboudit and wake my father up so he could be him.

Thought about the dishes and was ready. Realized there was an easier way. A pinch. A good pinch to wake him from his nap.

I sat next to him on the couch and planned my attack. He looked so peaceful. So rested. Seemed wrong to disturb him. Seemed better to let him have his rest. Maybe he would just wake up as him. Maybe he would wake up and everything would be alright. Maybe I shouldn't disturb him. Maybe this was wrong. Maybe this was cruel. I waived. Then I remembered the diapers and I pinched him. Hard. Really hard. Wake the dead hard. Harder than I should have, not as hard as I wanted, and just as hard as I could. It worked.

"Huh! OW! What the hell?" He looked at me in shock. "What the hell did you do that for, Mally???" He rubbed his leg where I pinched.

I wanted to explain. Wanted to apologize. Wanted to share how wonderful it was to have this victory over something that won everything else day after day since it arrived. Wanted to tell him all of that. Instead, I cried. I held him and cried. Cried that I could win sometimes. Cried over spilt milk shakes and loved life. Loved life for a moment. That was enough.

Yes, I did wake him with a pinch every day after that. Well, almost every day. More often than not. Moved the spots. The goal was to beat the disease, not the victim. It worked for a long time. I pinched Dad from slumber and he woke up right where he was. He knew me. He stayed with me. It worked better than the pills and any other let's try this and see what it does for the bottom line crap that was foisted on us. It was a pinch of sanity and a dose of victory in a war that finally felt a little less over.
Medical Marijuana

Three years blurred. I tried to remember them and somehow it was homogenized. A big ball of fragments. Dad lost a few more pieces of himself each day. Our lives became a jigsaw puzzle......with a fuzzy picture.

There is a routine to Fuggeddaboudit. I guess that is true of any slow devastation. The kids accepted Dad as he was and then was not. I took care of Dad. Tom took care of life. My world became Dad-centric.....and I was blessed by a family that understood and allowed it.

Jason became the one place free of Dad. He came to the house and tended what he called his Buddy. When it came time for me, Fridays at three o-clock, Jason insisted I came to his place. The session lasted two hours on the average and were enough to keep me sane. In the beginning, the sessions were about Dad and the ways I might help him.

Jason opened doors of possibilities for me. Homeopathic healing. Energy work. Diet. So many options. I read things suggested, researched more and more websites, and contacted folks recommended by Jason. The Magic Man tended me and gave me hope. I left each session comforted and armed with more possibilities. As things progressed, perhaps deteriorated is the right term, the sessions became about me. The shift began with my research into medical marijuana.

Wanted to find it....especially after what I called the Movie Incident. Dad and I attended a matinee as was our routine. I left in the middle of the movie to use the rest room. Dad was engrossed in the movie and seemed alright. Plus, I would be back in a flash. At least, that was the plan.

It seemed fast. When I got back to the seat, Dad was gone. I looked around and wondered if it was the wrong row. Maybe the wrong theater. Those multiplex cubicle theaters all looked alike. Then I called out for him. A few shhh's followed. They heard my reply very clearly. "Shish this, Asshole! DAD! Where are you, Dad?"

The folks outside Theater 6 had not seen him, so I popped into 7 and then 5 and then had the staffing looking in each one. I headed out to the door where we entered. Maybe Dad headed for the car. Maybe he thought I left him. He usually didn't even bother paying attention to where we parked. Not sure if he could anymore.

Was running towards the door, when a security guard called me. He had to call loud to get my attention. I turned quickly and knew he saw the panic on my face.

"Ma'am, are you looking for your father?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I think we have him right over her, Ma'am."

They did have him. Popcorn in hand, Dad was sitting on a bench by Sears and another security guard was comforting him. He was crying. Big sobs. I joined him.

Once we settled down, me first this time, he held onto me like a lost child that just found his way home. "Why'd you leave me, Mal?"

"Why'd you leave me?"

That night I began the search for medical marijuana. Mentioned it to Jason two days later in session.

He took it in stride and then asked me, "Do you think it will help your Dad?"

"It's not for Dad. It's for me."

From then on, my sessions with Jason were about me. For two hours each week, it was all about me. Thanks, Jason.
Don't Ask, Don't Tell

I wanted it to be over for most of the rest of Dad's life. Didn't want to talk about it in the bank when the teller looked at me and registered sympathy. Was it the very feel of me? Was I that pitiful? Dad was gone from public view for most of the last years. He was that man being taken care of by his family. Neighbors stopped by for a while and then they didn't. Quite frankly, I didn't blame them. Well, maybe I did. But that was about me. I resented they had that option.

The option to quit and just wait from the final report. The option to sigh now and then in sympathy and live your life. I didn't have that option. Not even on the few times I got away from the slow quicksand that was killing my father. Everywhere I went, it became all about death, dying, and life in the abyss known as "Alzheimer's' in da house."

Grocery shopping and ambushed by the bananas by long time no seers. Three sentences was the record. Three sentences before everything shifted to Dad and his demise.

They meant well. I was polite. Inside it broke my heart. I wanted to talk about anything else. News. Weather. Car troubles. Scandals. Soap Operas. The price of tea in China. Dad always asked me what something had to do with the price of Tea in China. I wanted to talk about the price of tea in China. How they grew it. How they exported it. How much went to Tetley....if any went to Tetley......where Tetley got their tea if not from China...if Tetley shipped tea into China. If they drank tea from China in China. Tea was important. Please talk about tea. Please talk about tea. Please talk about.....but it was Dad before the third sentence each and every time.

Sometimes I didn't want to be polite. Sometimes I wanted to scream and hit them over the head with the bananas that Dad might or might not know he ate a week from now. Please don't ask me. Please. I don't want to tell because I just might tell the truth and the truth was seeping with desperation and tainted by sitting too long when hope went cold and life was far from sweet.
Spinning Wheels

The years merged. Time flew. We had things to hold us. Things to help us find the joy as the pain and disappointment increased. It was a time of mixed blessings. Each thing that helped me also showed how much Dad deteriorated. We welcomed the Garden and then he was less and less able to enjoy it. His best of times became flashes that moved too quickly from our reality. His worst of times increased. In between, we had something new. We had echoes.

The routine was as important for all of us around Dad as it was for Dad. We moved in ever diminishing circles of sameness. Routine was our touchstone. A stone of calibration and sanity. Routine was comforting even as Dad was less and less a part of it as minutes turned to years and years to minutes. Less than five minutes since we adjusted to Fuggeddaboudit, Dad really died.

Along the way, he was there and not there. For him, it looked alright actually. Harmless. Clueless. Unaware. Me? I felt sad when he was like this and he was like this more and more. Those are the times that drained me the most I think. It helped to keep busy. It helped me to work in the garden while Dad sat on the bench. He was in La-La Land and would return if and when he could. Life went on around him. As best it could.

That is when the passing of time was a countdown. That is when the things that used to be with him merely filled the time. That is when I hated the whole process. Moving about in sadness sucked me dry.

Still, there were moments when he was there and I clung to each one as each one become rarer and rarer.

Dad felt it too. In his way. Sometimes Dad did not know what was going on. Sometimes Dad did. When he thought hard about it, he hated it. Hated life. Hated that he knew days were missing and more would be soon. That is when my father was something I had not witnessed prior. That is when my father was weak. He was human and frail and angry. When he was angry, he sulked and wanted nothing to do with anyone, me included. We hid the Easter Eggs. He said, "Find them yourselves. You better get used to it." He had his moments about it just like we all did. Acceptance is one thing. Denial is something a lot different.

Our arsenal held up pretty well against an enemy declared as ultimate. Bodywork. Routine. Pinches from sleep. Vegetarian diets. Gardening. Things that made us all better in their way. Things that brought us together more. Things that worked better than all the medicines and treatments. It was a realization as well as an acceptance.

Fuggeddaboudit was more than my father's battle. It was mine and everyone's that loved him. That is how we fought it. That is how we won for as long as we did. My father lost his battle and found his peace. The war continues.
A Cup Of Coffee

I moved on. Buried him. Missed him. Moved on from Fuggeddaboudit. Life took on its own flow. The kids grew. My husband was sweeter and kinder to me. I was sweeter and kinder to him. We eased ever so gently from the full immersion of Dad's last years on this planet. The shell-shocked losers of the war left the trenches a bit at a time.

Some long overdue dinner engagements with friends. An outing to the City for dinner and a show. Even a bittersweet three-day trip to Cooperstown. Bittersweet since Yankees were everywhere so Dad were very present for me. Yankees were a Dad and me thing. I wished he could have taken that trip instead of the one he took.

All those things helped. They were part of the healing. I was a bit more me each time. Yet they were not enough. I was numb and less than alive. Knew it. Felt it. Smiled pretty through it. I just knew there was supposed to be more. Had to be more. Something that said the experience was over but that it mattered. Any of it mattered. All of it mattered. Everything that happened mattered. It had to matter. Dad died and that had to matter. It was too hard and too tragic. It had to matter. Dad was gone and what he went through was wrong. For anyone. Especially my father. Especially me. Especially my family. Everyone deserved better. Anyone deserved better. I was bitter and sad and the emotions festered in me like dead fish. My heart stunk and there wasn't anyplace to dump the trash.

Alzheimer's was still there. It was the elephant in the living room we all saw and no one spoke about. Because of me. I shut down the conversations. Especially the well-intended ones littered with platitudes from those that didn't live the hell. Soon, folks were afraid to bring it up and that was perfectly alright with me. I didn't want to talk about it. I wanted to forget about it. Ironic, ain't it?

Then the phone rang. A person I didn't even know called and actually asked me to talk about it. Her name was Nancy and her Dad, in her words, was getting much worse. Could we meet for a cup of coffee? She just needed to talk to me. She just needed to talk to someone that understood.

I want to say I immediately felt the compassion. Truth be told, I was pissed. The thoughts that ran through my mind in a nanosecond were anything but compassionate. They were ugly. Full. Bold. Ugly. Who the hell gave her my name? Who the hell let her think I wanted anything more to do with Alzheimer's? Who the heck let her invade my world? When would this goddamned disease just go away and leave me alone? I shit canned the pills, the diapers, the books, and any and all evidence right after Dad was buried. It was gone. Banished. It didn't exist anymore. GO AWAY!

All that. In my sweet little mind of love and comfort. All that. A flash flood of NO! My words came forth to this Nancy person.

"Sure. Do you know where Perkins is?"
Reflections

Coffee took hours that day. Our waitress, Kathy, didn't rush us. She didn't crowd us. When we were done, she didn't charge us. She kept our cups full and left us alone. She knew. I love when people know.

Nancy spewed. She sobbed, dabbed her eyes, got her composure, shared, and sobbed in a cycle of the dam is bursting and I can't stop it. I knew that feeling.

I remember what I didn't have that day. No magic pill. No promises. No platitudes. No real advice. She didn't need that. She didn't need anything from my mouth. She needed my ears. Well, that and my eyes every time my eyes said my ears heard her. She needed to be on the care-needing end.

Odd that I felt like I did very little but knew that is was actually quite a lot. For those few hours, Nancy had company. Kindred, in Jason speak.

I left a tip, smiled at Kathy, loved her return smile, and walked Nancy to her car. We hugged. She had my number and now I had hers. She thanked me and drove home to the battleground.

On my way home, I stopped by the beach. Took a walk. Thought a lot. What happened next kinda snuck on me. Two blocks and ten minutes later, I felt the smile on my face. Dad and I just helped Nancy and Chuck, her Dad. Dad and I knew what to say and not to say and were right where we needed to be over a cup of coffee.

I helped someone. Really helped them. That helped me. Enough to know I needed to help others. Surely there were others out there that needed my ear. From their mouth to my ear to my heart and back to their heart. I needed them to know I was here. Where they were and that there is life after dying. I needed to let them know it would be alright. It would be alright. It really would be alright. I was living proof. That was the moment I knew it would be alright.
Author's Note

Mallory is real. She is out there. She is making a difference everyday. She came to me as a voice and told her story. She is quite insistent and left me little option but to write it.

I like that her details are a bit fuzzy around the edges. She paints in broad strokes and communicates intimacies in ways that are very human...very real.

It was my hope that she would tell me the rest of the story so it could be told here. Yet it is told. You know what she did. She banded together with others. They became friends and family. Mallory and her family, Nancy and her family, and many others and their families survived the loss of their loved ones and emerged with resolve. Realistic resolve.

Diet. Alternative healing. Energy work. Spirituality. Love. Cosmic changes rather than cosmetic medicines and pills. They are living hope and, quite frankly, they are pissed at the state of affairs.

We are the solution. Sharing. Caring. Praying. Hoping. I am here if you need to vent, share, or just reach out. Together, we heal. We are stronger than Fuggeddaboudit, Cancer, and all illness.

There was one piece pushed to me by Mallory's Dad. She did not know he did that. I kept it from her because it was so sad I didn't think she was ready for it. Maybe now she is. Here are his words. From the inside of Fuggeddaboudit.
Victim's Lament

Trapped inside this skin, trying to get out.

Trapped inside this skin, can't you hear me shout?

I'm trying, I'm trying, I'm trying.

I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying.

Who's that person there? Why do they still care?

Is it really Sunday? Please help me comb my hair.

Mommy must be shopping, where'd I put my pants?

Please just go away. I want to but I can't.

No longer. No longer. How much must I take?

No longer. No longer. How much can I take?

Trapped inside this skin, trying to get out.

Trapped inside this skin, can't you hear me shout?

I'm trying. I'm trying. I'm trying.

I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm dying.

Will it be a good day? Will I just be me?

Will things be familiar? Will I want to scream?

Sorry for the bother. Sorry for the shame.

Wish it was all over. Wish things were the same.

You grew up very pretty. Please just hold my hand.

Thanks for hanging in there. Thank you my dear friend.

The show is almost over. Please just get some rest.

The show is almost over. I did my very best.

Trapped inside this skin, trying to get out.

Trapped inside this skin, quieting the shouts.

Done trying. Done trying. Done trying.

Good byyyyyyyying. Good byyyyyying, Good byyyyyyyyyyyy
