My father got Alzheimer\u2019s 10 years ago. At first, we passed it off to \u201cgetting old.\u201d He\u2019d drive the car to the corner store a half-mile away, and get lost coming home. He\u2019d take a bite of my mom\u2019s apple pie and say, \u201cI don\u2019t want meat loaf.\u201d He\u2019d spend a half hour in the bathroom before we\u2019d knock on the door to ask, \u201cAre you OK, dad?\u201d Only to find that he\u2019d peed all over the walls by accident and was too embarrassed to come out and admit he needed help.<\/p>\n
There were days when I\u2019d look at this confused old man, struggling to figure out how to use a spoon, and think \u201cWhere\u2019s my dad?\u201d The dad I knew for 35 years was melting away as fast as fresh snow on a warm late-winter day. The dad I knew made everyone smile \u2013 even the cranky waitresses who\u2019d heard them all, but still managed to laugh because they couldn\u2019t resist his grin. The dad I knew could recite every story I\u2019d every written from memory, so proud of me he\u2019d bore every old guy down at the horseshoe courts bragging on my accomplishments. The dad I knew looked sharp every time he went out the door, his duffer\u2019s cap titled just so on his head, his well-worn sweater always neatly buttoned over a fresh-pressed shirt.<\/p>\n
The day I finally accepted that he was sick was the day I took him to New York City to hear Rachmaninoff play at Lincoln Center. Ever since I was a little girl he\u2019d regaled me with the story of the first time he\u2019d heard the great pianist play. It was a warm summer night in Brooklyn at an outdoor theater. As the story went, just before the concert was to begin, my dad anxiously twisted in his seat, peering around at the bustling audience, worried he wouldn\u2019t be able to hear the music over their constant chatter. \u201cBut then,\u201d he\u2019d tell me, his eyes still bright at a memory more than three decades old, \u201cthen, Rachmaninoff struck the first note. Instantly, the entire crowd fell silent. It was beautiful. A perfect summer evening filled with magnificent music. I\u2019ll never forget it.\u201d<\/p>\n
The night I took him to Lincoln Center was also a beautiful summer evening. We got to the city early and I took him to a Japanese restaurant where we shared a able with a half-dozen other people to watch the chef make like a samurai, flipping his knives into the air as he sliced our meals into tiny bites that landed perfectly upon our plates. Everything went great until the meal ended, and my dad took out one of his cigars. Of course it was a Garcia Y Vega, his favorite. It was always a pleasure to watch my dad light his cigars, making like an Indian at a ceremonial service. The quick flare of the match. That first puff. And the satisfied look on his face as he leaned back in his chair with his trademark smile. This time, though, the match didn\u2019t settle in the ash try \u2013 it landed on his polyester shirt, quickly burning a giant hole. There was no real harm done, but I\u2019ll never forget the look on his face. For the first time, I saw my dad ashamed.<\/p>\n
He\u2019d insisted on dressing himself for our outing, even though he could no longer coordinate colors. Yes, his plaid shirt clashed a bit with his hounds tooth jacket. And the sneakers he insisted on wearing were a little out of place among the tuxedo clad gentlemen accompanying the fancy women in their ballgowns gathering at Lincoln Center for this prestigious opening night. But to me, he was the most handsome man in the joint. We took our $90 box seats just above the great stage where Rachmaninoff was soon to play. The excitement in the theater was palpable: this was the pianist\u2019s return after years away from this stage. When he finally came out and took his bows I looked to my dad, certain his face would reflect the moment. Instead, he was worrying his hands, peering around at the crowd with suspicion. \u201cWho are all these people? Why are they making so much noise?\u201d he asked. I tried my best to calm him as the famed chandeliers <\/span>rose to the ceiling, a sure sign the evening was about to begin. But my stomach was in knots. \u201cWhat if he made a scene,\u201d I thought. \u201cWhat should I do?\u201d<\/p>\n And then Rachmninoff took the stage. He took his bow and the crowd hushed. Finally, the music started. It was beautiful. I looked at my dad and his eyes were glued to the man at the piano. For the first time all evening, I felt myself relax. The music my father loved was working is magic.<\/p>\n When Rachmaninoff finished the first piece, there was that long, full moment of silence before the thunder of the applause. It was the moment my dad chose to call out, \u201cI thought it would be better than this!\u201d I was mortified, certain we\u2019d be thrown out. But then I looked around at the fancy people sharing our box. They weren\u2019t offended. Instead, they were smiling. You see, before the performance started my dad had shared his story about seeing Rachmaninoff for the first time. Despite the Alzheimer\u2019s, he\u2019d told the story with his usual relish and flare. They could see he was a gentle old man with much to tell. They could also see that he was sick, but it didn\u2019t matter. He could still make even the coldest stranger smile.<\/p>\n That night was the last good time my father and I had together. After that, the disease progressed rapidly. Soon, he couldn\u2019t be left alone. We had to feed him, bath him and even change his diapers. Eventually, he became a danger to himself, and everyone around him. After four years of caring for him at home, it was time to put him in a hospital, where he could receive the around-the-clock medical attention he needed.<\/p>\n I was with him the day he died. As usual, I was playing music in his room, blasting it so his weak ears might hear. For this day, I chose Rachmaninof. He hadn\u2019t known who I was for years, and couldn\u2019t even remember that he had any children at all. But that day, when I held his face and looked close into his still-bright blue eyes, he seemed to recognize me, if only for a moment. I talked to him, and recounted his favorite story about that night so long ago in Brooklyn. For just a moment, his eyes came into focus. And he smiled. My dad \u2013 the dad I knew \u2013 smiled. Soon, we were both at peace.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My father got Alzheimer\u2019s 10 years ago. At first, we passed it off to \u201cgetting old.\u201d He\u2019d drive the car to the corner store a half-mile away, and get lost coming home. He\u2019d take a bite of my mom\u2019s apple pie and say, \u201cI don\u2019t want meat loaf.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-essays"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=10"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=10"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=10"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/dawnshurmaitis.net\/works\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=10"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}