You may be familiar with the Dr. Seuss Book entitled “Are You My Mother?”. It’s a sweet story about a little bird that accidentally falls out of his nest and begins to search for his mother, who was out gathering food. Having no knowledge or memory of his mother, he has no idea what to look for.
He comes across various things and repeatedly asks the question “Are you my mother?” To which each of them responds with a “No”. He becomes more and more despondent as his search continues until at long last; he comes across a creature that resembles him. This time when he asks the question – “Are you my mother?” the answer is a resounding “Yes. I am your mother!” which makes the little bird very happy.
The story line of this book which I have read about a thousand times to my kids when they were little came to me recently upon visiting my father. A while back, he had to be admitted to a nursing home rehabilitation center to help him recover from the effects of a minor stroke. Between this stroke and his worsening Alzheimer’s, I wasn’t sure what to expect.
If you’ve read any of my blogs or newsletters where I speak about my dad, you know I consider him a rock star. From his musical gifts to his entrepreneurial skills to his role as head of our family, my dad is and always has been my hero. I love him more than words can say.
When I walked into the room to see him, my heart sank to the floor. My eyes filled with tears and while I know it’s impossible to feel, I could swear I felt my heart break. For what appeared before me was not my rock star dad. What appeared before me was neither the man I sometimes feared as a child nor the man who crushed me and my kids at cards countless times.
What was before me was a man broken by his physical and mental ailments. The light in his eye was dim. The strong arms that would hug me when I visited could barely be lifted off the wheelchair. The wide smile he would get when I or my kids would make him laugh was barely a grin.
Who was this stranger staring back at me? Are you my father?
Thankfully, he remembered me. He remembered my son. He did not remember my daughter immediately and this broke her heart. We all struggled with conversation, him barely able to put sentences together, his eyes begging me to get him out of there and take him home. It was all I could do to not break down and sob.
As we left the hospital that day, the Dr. Seuss story came to me. Never again would I be able to talk to my dad about my life and have him understand or remember. Never again would we be able to do the Sunday crossword puzzle together. Never again would I be able to joke with him and trade sarcastic barbs that would’ve likely gotten me sent to my room as a child, but as an adult, are appreciated.
Are you my father?
I don’t hate many things. I say I hate liver, though I’ve never tried it (but it so grosses me out that I know I would hate it.) I also don’t use the word ‘hate’ all that often really. I don’t like the word.
But…I hate Alzheimer’s. Every last bit of it I hate. I hate that it steals people’s memories. I hate that it steals their personalities. I hate that it makes people so weak and helpless.
I hate Alzheimer’s because it stole my father from me and my children. Alzheimer’s stole my rock star dad and replaced him with someone I do not know. I hate Alzheimer’s.
I miss my dad. I try to conjure up my memories of him whenever I think about his current state. I tell my kids to hold on to the days when they’d talk to him about their lives or sports or joked with him because he had no idea what they were doing on their iPhones. Hold strong.
I don’t know what to expect next time I visit my father. I pray he still remembers me and my kids. I pray I can still make him laugh. I pray there’s a glimmer of him left. Selfish, I know, but I can’t help myself. I want my dad back.
I’m grateful for the time we spent with my father. I’m grateful for the solid memories my kids have of him. I’m grateful that he is still physically here for me to hug and kiss. There’s much I’m grateful for and when God decides it’s time for him to leave this life, I will be grateful for this man who was my father – my rock star – my rock.
Are you my father? Yes. I am your father.