We Have All Turned Into Ourselves

More dementia stuff. Four Agreements revisited. Plus, a good haunting Linda Pastan poem, mirth amidst the ruins et cetera.

In mid-January, soon after my father died, as I was taking down Christmas decorations at their independent living condo, one of the neighbors on their floor came up to offer her condolences. "He's better off, though. And so is your mother." Chilly, for sure—she should have left that part out, but it's not like I hadn't thought it. Everyone who's seen dementia up close has to consider: is this a life worth continuing?

My father's noticeable lapses in his short-term memory began at about 73. Physically, he was still in good shape, athletic even. But it became obvious where he was headed.

I resented him for not addressing it. I'd already decided that if I were him, I'd want to start immediately collecting memories wherever possible. Why not set off for Paris for a month? Or just go see and touch and feel all the museums or baseball stadiums he could. Come live with us, watch our babies start to walk and talk so they get to know him.

But he wasn't that type of guy. Besides, if he began to live life that way, he was fully conceding to his inevitable, ugly death.

A couple of years ago, just before my mother and father were scheduled to fly out to Los Angeles to visit us, I had a Zoom call with the Esquire writer Charles Pierce, who chronicled his father's Alzheimer's demise in his book, Hard to Forget. He didn't give me much advice, mostly stone-faced empathy.

The book is partially a personal father-son story, but he also uses his formidable reporting skills to search for why there is no cure or why there hasn't even been much progress on a cure for nearly 20 years. After his father dies, he's left to contemplate his unlucky genes. At the end of the book, he still hadn't decided if, given the chance, he'd want to know his own fate.

And that's the question everyone faces in some way: do I want to know the number of the bus that will run me over?

I would. Well, as of today, I would. But I also have yet to begin bucket-listing, so who am I to judge?

After I initially ran the "I Love You Infinity” story last year, I received emails from many other middle-aged children who had had similar, even exact, experiences like the one I had. This was one of my favorites that continues to stick with me:

Merry Christmas!

Thank you for such a lovely, complicated essay about visiting your Dad. It definitely made me cry.

Both my parents had Alzheimer's and dementia the last few years of their lives. My Dad in particular dramatically fell off that cliff once my Mom died.

It's a strange disease—they are themselves and yet not themselves. The Husband and I found we had the best visits when, like you did, we entered his world and followed along. It's really the only way to be with them.

The more I thought about it, this is a good rule to abide by when we're faced with difficult circumstances surrounding another person's health, even addiction: We're all part of someone else's world, and sometimes the best we can do—the most loving thing we can do—is to follow along.