Undefeated Innocence

“This is the nursing station. We need to talk to you about your dad.”

The phone call I always dreaded interrupted the monotonous clicking of my keyboard and announced the beginning of my father’s final journey. He fought the good fight, and it was time for him to go to his eternal home. Alzheimer’s was finally being defeated by grace.

My coworkers began to trickle into the office, breaking the early morning solitude. I slowly rose to close my door for this private moment and whispered a silent prayer for strength. My tears gently flowed, and I began to gratefully reflect on the events of his life and our lives together before that phone call.

For years, my dad’s animated laughter brought tears to his eyes and joy to my heart. He loved being a storyteller. He perfected the art of surprising his family and friends with seemingly true stories that were actually extended-play versions of funny jokes. Dad’s charm was delightfully addictive—from serving up family pranks to carrying a gun by day and knitting needles at night to craft each of us a pair of red, white, and blue slippers. Dad bought me my first guitar, accused me of cheating when I beat him at backgammon, challenged me at cribbage, and taught me how to knit.

Signs of Alzheimer’s gradually began to manifest in my dad in his early seventies. It started with little things like stammering, defining words with other words, losing things, and repeating stories more than usual. For my fiftieth birthday, my husband surprised me with a trip to Arkansas to spend time with my parents, which included Dad and me playing guitar together at the local senior center—until he could no longer remember the chords. I realized a few years later that I witnessed the defeat of his guitar by it. It was the last time we played music together.

Dad began telling my mom he was looking for Beverly, and he would leave for hours trying to find her. Because of the disease, he could only remember my mom as the Beverly he married in 1953, not as the wife standing loyally at his side.

As the disease continued its rampage, it got angry with his wife when she would try to stop him from driving. It became aggressive and bruising when she kept him from the car keys. It would get him lost a hundred miles away from home. Dad would always somehow find his way to a police station. He carried his badge, shared cop stories, and told them he was ready to return to duty. But it wouldn’t allow him to find his way home. He couldn’t remember what home was anymore.

Dad quickly lost decades of memories. I told Mom to call me if she ever needed help. One evening at dinner time, Mom called me. “He keeps saying he spoke with his mother a few days ago, and he’s angry I won’t get her on the phone. Could you talk to him, please?”

Mom gave the phone to my dad, and I said, “Hi, Dad. What’s going on?”

“I just talked to my mother last week. Your mother won’t give me the phone number so I can call her again.”

“Dad, I’m really sorry, but your mom passed away when I was twelve years old. Grandma’s been gone for forty years.”

Dad didn’t say much, and my heart was broken enough for both of us. I thought he might cheer up if he could talk to his grandson. I passed the phone to my son who said, “Grandpa, how are you doing?”

“Well,” said Dad, “I just found out my mom died.”

Alzheimer’s took my dad, and it wasn’t going to give him back.

We made the difficult decision to take Dad away from the home he loved to go to a place he would never leave. Within a few days from my home in Minnesota, I found a nursing home in Arkansas that had a room for him, and I reassured Mom that I would come to move him there. I always loved flying. But on the quiet flight to Arkansas, the disease stole my joy.

Dad was excited to see me when I made my surprise arrival at the house. His beautiful blue eyes sparkled as they welled up with tears at seeing his baby girl. I never wanted his bear hug to end. My heart was breaking, and it pained my spirit to look him truthfully in the eyes. After a tearful explanation and a faithless promise that he was just trying it for a little while, we arrived at the nursing home a few hours later.

Dad taught me how to be brave, and it was time to let him go. I coveted the courage to give my dad a final act of kindness. I was his beloved baby girl, and I had to find the compassion to tell him that when he knew it was his time, I would be okay.

Father’s Day arrived a few months later. I desperately hoped he might remember me. He always seemed to come out of the fog for me, even if just for a few moments. With Mom’s help, we planned for me to call him at the nursing home.

My mom held the phone up to his ear. I told him how much I loved him. I could hear Mom telling him it was me on the phone, but his only response was gibberish and mumbling. My hope of connecting with him on Father’s Day like I had the previous fifty years was gone. It had seemingly taken that away too.

Mom took the phone from my dad. He immediately shouted, “I want to talk to Cheryl!” Mom put the phone back up to his ear. My heart melted, my eyes leaked, and I once again proclaimed, “Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you!”

He said, “You love me?”

“I sure do, Dad. Always.”