12/20/09

12/20/09

Dad decided he wanted a Christmas tree this year. Not a fan of killing trees, I suggested a live one and Dad was thrilled by the idea. So, today I got him a small, potted spruce at the farmers' market, and was hauling it, melting snow and all, up Dad's stairs, when I was greeted at the top by Charlie McKenna.

“I've been wanting to talk to you,” he said, always an ominous beginning, I think. He went on to tell me that on a couple of occasions lately, late at night, he has heard Dad bumbling around in the hall outside his apartment!!! Apparently Dad has been waking up and wandering out of his apartment door. It's a miracle he hasn't fallen down the stairs – they're only a few feet from the door – but apparently Charlie has been retrieving him, cooking him eggs, and putting him back to bed. Charlie wasn't complaining – in fact, he seemed sincerely touched by being able to do this for his old friend – but clearly this can't continue. I decided on the spot that Dad could not be left alone, even though it meant I had to spend the night with no preparations like clean clothes or spare meds.

I started to cry right there in the hall, tree, Charlie McKenna and all, because I can't help but see this as further evidence of Dad's deteriorating condition. The thing about Alzheimer's is that you get used to one stage of badness and are coping with it, and then a trap door opens under your feet and you're abruptly plunged to the next level of badness.

I was still crying surreptitiously when I carried the tree in and set it down in front of Dad. He touched it gingerly, taking in the texture of the needles and the mixed smells of evergreen and damp soil. “It's beautiful,” he said. “It's beautiful. I love it.”