My Dad

I got a call from my dad’s neighbors on Sunday. They were concerned about his well-being.

My dad loves the beauty of the outdoors, and has chosen to live in a rural area that provides the serenity he enjoys. But that means he is not nearby, and so we don’t see him too often. And while we go to visit him from time to time, it has been years since he came to stay with us.

But when I got that call, I made the nine-hour round trip to pick him up and drive him back to our house.

I was shocked when he allowed us to take him to see a doctor. To my knowledge, it was the first time in his adult life that he so consented.

Actually, it didn’t happen so easily.

I had hurriedly scheduled an appointment for him, but he said he would not go. He was fine, he insisted. I told him he was not. He still refused to go. We argued.

My wife asked him to go. He likes her better than me. But he still refused. However, on the morning of the appointment, he told my wife, not me, that he would go see the doctor after all.

So we went to see that doctor, and the next day a neurologist. And the following day he went in for an MRI.

And when it was all said and done, we got the diagnosis that I knew was coming. My dad has Alzheimer’s.

Though I’ve known for some time that it was likely the case, as long as no doctor confirmed it, I was able to keep deluding myself that his problems were not so severe.

I will now have to accept it, even if my dad doesn’t. My dad is a tough old coot. He is independent. He is stubborn. He has never admitted a weakness in his whole life, probably because he never had a real reason to.

Even now, he insists he is fine. He believes that he can go on living by himself in the middle of nowhere with no assistance. He is adamant that the neurologist is wrong. That is, when he can remember that he even saw a neurologist.

Though, this morning, I saw a different side of him. As we sat waiting for him to be called in for his MRI, we talked about his situation. For the first time, he told me that he understood that I was trying to look out for his best interests, and that he appreciated it. He acknowledged that he might have to change his ways.

Of course, a couple hours later, he had forgotten that conversation and was back to saying that he was fine and nothing needed to change. But I will remember that little moment.

In fact, between all of the medical business, there have been other moments that I want to hang on to.

At dinner the other day, my dad regaled us with stories about his boyhood days growing up in Hawaii. This man, who forgets anything I tell him within minutes, has perfect memory of his youth. I enjoyed hearing him talk about how he and his friends made their own spear-gun out of scraps, and used it to catch fish and octopus in the ocean. I had no doubt the story was true because I had witnessed countless occasions throughout my life where my dad built things from scratch with no directions. He had ingenuity that I thought came naturally with all dads, but am finding is not so much the case with me.

As his dinnertime stories continued, I asked him when he first learned to hunt. He said that he was about eight years old, and my son perked up. Kai had not appeared to be interested in his grandfather’s stories, but suddenly piped up and asked, “When can I go hunting?” My dad told him there was no place to hunt here, but Kai said that he would go to his grandfather’s place so that Ojiichan can teach him.

There were a few other interactions between them. I don’t remember my dad ever being all that kid-friendly, especially when I was a kid. But with Kai, he made an effort to talk with him. And for a boy who doesn’t always speak clearly, and a man who has difficulty hearing, it was surprising to see how much they did connect.

My dad asked Kai questions, watched him at his swim lesson, and enjoyed seeing him play piano.

Aside from our arguments over his condition, my dad has been remarkably happy all week. In fact, I don’t remember him being this happy in years. I think being around Kai, and my wife, has a lot to do with it.

I know he will not remember the specific events of the week. I’m sure he has forgotten most of them already. But I’d like to think that the good feelings will stay with him.

I know they will with me.

For a week filled with doctor’s appointments and examinations, a terrible diagnosis and lots of discussions with my sister about what this means, the thing I will remember most from this week will have nothing to do with that.

I will always remember it as a week that my dad connected with us like never before.