The 15 Page Chicken Report...

Last night in the hospital my father inquired as to whether or not I had a chance to review his 15 page chicken report.  First he asked my mom...she said she had not.   Then he asked me.  It was, at first blush, a funny question since it has been years since my father was capable of compiling a report of any kind, to include oral reports about his own physical status.  Then to add the element of chickens, over which he has no knowledge other than he eats them for dinner when my mom prepares them...

So after it landed funny, it quickly morphed into tragic.  His mind was awash last night with events, people, The Klu Klux Klan among other casts of characters that made a cameo appearance from the contents of his mind. It remains unclear as to whether these ramblings are related to things from his past (to be clear he was NEVER a supporter of the KKK or involved with them in any way shape or form) or whether what was coming from him last night was just a jumbled mess of neurons firing in no particular order.  He was quite eloquent and loquacious (a bit shocking since he hasn’t said that many words in the last year and half), even if he made no sense. The speaking structure organized and logical, but peppered with intrusive thoughts and ideas that were not germane to his intended speech.

So my mom and I sat and watched as he attempted to place items in pants pockets his hospital gown did not have, hold court about the issues he currently sees as a problem for all of us and intermittently laugh - I think at himself but I am really not sure.

He was agitated which is a new phenomena.  He was somewhat paranoid and verbose also new arrivals on the demented journey to the end.  It was both fascinating and heartrendingly sad.

And with that our new normal now changes daily, sometimes hourly.  Yesterday he was loquacious and chatty, today we could barely wake him up to eat or take his meds.  Even when I am sitting in the room with him, I feel like he is a million miles away.  Some distant planet that only he inhabits and I can only observe the outward manifestations of the culture that exists only within his mind.

I will never know what he believes is in his 15 page chicken report.  I can only guess, and try as I might, I have no idea what that even looks like.  And if I am honest, I don’t think that he knows either.  This is where we are now.  Years of fewer and fewer words uttered, to bursts of garbled nonsense that makes just enough sense to engage me in the idea that my father is still in there somewhere.  I pull at strands to see if I can pinpoint where his mind is on the timeline of his life...but there is no way to know, what he is seeing and feeling and thinking could be something related to his life, something he saw on TV or something completely made up within the deep recesses of his mind.  He cannot say and I will never know.

I do not want to do this.  Watch idly by while he slowly marches manically to death.  But that is my task.  To stand watch, to protect him, even if his biggest threat most days is himself.  To assist and aid him and my mom as they navigate the treacheries of older age, sickness and eventually death.  

And as painful as it might be, I would really like to read his 15 page chicken report.  Some treatise on his mental status, the inner workings of a man I have called Dad my whole life but do not think I ever really knew.  He was this tyrannical force, often fun and funny, and at other times horribly dismissive and sometimes cruel.  We battled.  I did not care for his idea of who he wanted me to be and instead opted for my own version of a headstrong, opinionated, take charge female that I am sure threatened him on a variety of levels.

It is a weird thing to be at this place in both our lives and to think that I am not sure we ever really knew each other.  The fights and fisticuffs of our younger years, plastered over with decades of excesses for us both, and finally some healing began and took hold once we both found our way to a sober life.  I would love to say that recovery brought me closer to understanding my father, but alas, I cannot say that.

So I find myself mildly entertained by the spectacle of his dementia, find myself searching for meaning where there is only rambling thoughts that usually lead nowhere.  I am sad that I didn’t know him better...but also know that we both really did the best we could.  And the fact that we weren’t in a constant state of war with each other this last 20 years, a true gift and blessing of sober life.

It is also incredibly painful to watch, bear witness and endure.  Which pales in comparison to what my mom is going through, which is the only thing that makes my own plight bearable.  To me he was my father, I had no choice in the matter.  His role in my life, decided upon my arrival here. But my mom, she made this choice.  And now, 56 years later (57 in August), she must rectify her own reality of this man she has loved and lived with for her entire adult life.  And now must watch and care for him as he slows evaporates before her eyes.

There will never be an actual 15 page chicken report.  I know that.  Instead it becomes emblematic for me of all the things that we never said, all the times we never shared, all the stuff that passed between us, neither of us able to get out of our own way long enough or well enough to bridge the life long divide that separated us from the other.

What I can do now, is show up.  I can be there now.  To care, to evaluate, to lend a hand, to participate, to shoulder the responsibility of the man I call dad.  And to my mom, to ease her burden and be her strength as we walk down this ever narrowing corridor called life.

Again...still.

Fuck me.  It is painful.