I brought Dad to my house today so he could hand out the Halloween candy. He looked adorable in his jester’s hat and it was warm enough for him to sit out front with the basket of candy. It went well at first, though he kept getting impatient during the intervals between children and he kept trying to give candy to passing adults.
The trouble came when he needed to use the bathroom – the bathroom in my house is up a flight of twisty wooden stairs and Dad just couldn’t manage them – he went up about three and then it became clear he couldn’t do it. All my neighbors’ houses are set up the same way, so the only solution was to walk down to the bar on the corner. All the way, Dad kept complaining about having to walk a “half-mile” and saying that he should just “piss out the window,” an activity that would cause a riot in my uptight neighborhood.
Once we got back to his house, Dad was struggling to understand where we’d been and why. “We were gone for several days?” he asked. “No, Dad, just six hours.” I told him. Realizing the difference between his perceptions and the reality of what had actually happened made Dad worry about his brain. “Am I liable to jump out the window?” he asked me. After I reassured him about that, he asked, “Am I going to walk and walk and walk and not remember where I am?” Although this scenario was more likely than his jumping out the window, I reassured him again and reminded him that he doesn’t go out alone. Even if he did venture out alone, he wouldn’t get very far, since half a block is his maximum walking distance these days. And then came the third question, one he has never asked before,“Is there a cure?” I tried to be as gentle as possible as I explained that there is no cure, but it was a heartbreaking moment.
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