Two + Two = Us

Since Father's day has just happened, I've been thinking a lot about my dad, dementia, and the circumstances that have led us to where we are today.

After mom passed away, my constant hope and prayer was that my dad wouldn't become a statistic. I had read somewhere that if an older man's wife dies first, the man will most likely follow within three years. Of course, I tried just now to find the actual percentage and can't find it, but I did come across many articles about the Widowhood Effect. Basically, I was worried that I would lose my dad soon after I lost my mom.

And I did. No, my dad has not passed away. But he is most definitely not the same jovial dad that I have fond memories of from my childhood. At first, I thought it was just grief. Depression. And the fact that he just didn't know how to be independent after having mom to rely on for so many years. It started off with forgetting simple things, like where the knives are located (in front of him on the kitchen counter, as always) or how to operate the same microwave we've had for years. And then his feet-shuffling continued to worsen, and he started to go to physical therapy. He also just generally seemed moody, and quite frankly very unpleasant to be around - again, not the same man that I remember so fondly.

During this time, he also took several trips on his own - to Michigan for a few months to be with his sister, and then twice to the Philippines. His return back home was always rocky, as he continued to worsen in terms of his general attitude towards us and also his forgetfulness and ability to walk well. He had started using a cane, in addition to PT, which slowly transitioned to a walker. While in the Philippines during that last trip, he was diagnosed with Parkinsonism and later, here, dementia. He started going to memory care day services a few times a week to socialize and interact with others in his same situation, and he absolutely loved it. He also had a few Filipina women that we would rotate using on other days because we took away his car keys but wanted him to still be able to go to church, get his cigarettes, and just have people around.

For a while, everything was a fine status quo. It wasn't the best, but we were making it work. But there was something about this year that started the ball rolling into something that I couldn't control and didn't know what to do.

Around the middle of January, his physical therapist (who specializes with helping people with Parkinson's symptoms) told us that there simply wasn't any improvement and that there just wasn't anything more that she could do for him. And he started falling. A lot. He always fell some, but now it seemed like it was every single day. Somehow nothing that ever warranted a 911 call or hospital stay, but it got to the point where we didn't trust him being home alone. Not only because of the falling, but also because he was smoking a lot. We installed cameras everywhere on the lower level and also upped the amount of at-home care he was getting from the Filipina help because we had noticed him trying to smoke in the house when we weren't looking, and we were worried he'd forget he was smoking and burn down the home. Add to that, he just didn't have anything to say to us when we'd get home, and it all just started to sting.

We had originally planned a Florida beach trip for our March spring break, but I knew my dad could not handle a trip to the beach in his current state. However, I also knew that I wanted to do something fun for my daughter's 13th birthday and, to be perfectly honest, I just needed a getaway myself. So we all trekked to California for the week, where we got to spend time with my Uncle Joseph (dad's brother) and his wife Auntie Lita who graciously offered to keep my dad for a few days so that we could traipse to Big Bear for a little respite.

I think that trip was a godsend for all of us, and I thank God every day that we went. Uncle Joseph and Auntie Lita helped me to see that there really just is no way that I can do this on my own. They saw first-hand his immobility and dementia (he fell every single day there - once breaking a vase, could never remember where he was nor could find the bathroom the whole week he was there) and lack of kindness to his own family. In fact, they were making the push to let him go to the Philippines even though I had my own reservations of him being so far away.

Dad with Uncle Joseph and Auntie Lita

But, alas, God always knows what he's doing.

Those weeks after California and all of April were so, so hard. My own health was acting up - I lost my voice for over a month and had crazy coughing fits that lasted weeks. Not something ideal for a second-grade teacher. Additionally, the kids were insanely busy - not only with school, but Felicity with lacrosse, Xavier with the school musical, and both with forensics and their instruments. Dad, too, was having a hard time. He continued to fall regularly. Once, when we were trying to help him up, his response was "I don't know why you care. Just bury me already." Not something you ever want to hear your loved one say. Cameras showed that he also fell at night, a few times to the point where he couldn't get back up and spent the majority of the evening on the floor. So we started sleeping on the couch downstairs just to be close by in case it were to happen again.

None of this was long-term sustainable by any means. So, I started thinking about what Uncle Joseph and Auntie Lita had said, and I started asking around about what it would look like for dad to move back to the Philippines. My Auntie Florence and Uncle Ruben have recently retired to Baguio, and they offered to house my dad with in-home care and even researched nursing facilities there should his health continue to worsen. I thought that maybe I would be spending my summer settling him in the Philippines and was working on figuring out how that would all unfold.

I was stressed beyond belief. It got to the point where I was constantly reviewing my family's busy schedules to make sure that everyone was accounted for and that someone was home with dad at all times. This was not an easy task, given all of the activities the kids had committed to and Justin's crazy work schedule. I was starting to get to my wit's end. I also realized that I knew for sure that I didn't want dad in the Philippines just yet because I knew that if he left, I probably would never see him again. But I did not know what the answer should be - in-home full-time home health? A memory care facility?

So my gracious principal told me to take a few days off of school to figure out my own plan (and also hope to heal my voice/coughing while I was away). I was hoping to make home health work because, like many people, I did not feel right about "sticking my dad in a home." After making some calls, though, I realized that between his Filipina caregiver during the day and having someone come at night was just over-the-top expensive. I thought about quitting my job to take care of dad, but that didn't really make sense because my own paycheck goes towards my own family's needs.

I started asking around about assisted living and memory care residences. Some of them I immediately knew were not the right fit. Some were downright depressing, a few were way out of our price range, and one didn't have any openings but still wanted us to tour anyway. I had ultimately narrowed it down to two choices: one that was highly raved about by friends with personal experience but was located about a half hour away and one that got very good online reviews, looked fantastic on the tour, and was 1.5 miles away. After agonizing, praying, and discussing with various friends and family, we went with the one that was the closest - three and a half minutes, as Felicity timed it once on her phone.

Now the problem was broaching the subject with dad. I decided I needed to do it on my own, as I didn't want the kids or Justin around for him to get mad at or blame if he got upset. So one night, when it was just dad and me eating dinner, I summoned up the courage to bring it up. I had a whole spiel lined up about how it was in his best interest, we can't look after him all the time, his doctors had wanted this, he falls too often - but after the initial few sentences, he basically said, "Okay, sounds good. When?" I was shocked....and hopeful that his dementia-brain would remember that conversation. Fast-forward a few days later when we happened to drive by the place and I reminded him that that's where he would be staying starting in a few weeks. His comment, again, was jovial - "Oh, wow! That's so close to the house!"

We continued to move forward, as planned. Naturally, my emotions were going through the roof, especially as move-in day approached. Is this really the right thing? Will dad be ok? Am I being selfish? Is this a cop-out? After all, we had the Bungalolo newly made for him to live with us. The guilt was sky-high.

Then it was move-in day. As you can imagine, I was crazy-stressed about how this would all play out. He had actually been to the residence before for a pre-assessment and all went well, but this was obviously very different. They were busy when we arrived, so we were told to wait in the lobby for the nurse to come take care of us. Dad immediately sensed something was up. Even though we had discussed him moving here, actually being there really through him for a loop. He started getting very loud and defensive, yelling at me that we need to go home, that he would never live here, and that he wanted to leave. He called me a terrible daughter. And then he'd get distracted because he saw the bright animated images on the nearby TV as Dora the Explorer was being aired and he became quiet. But when a commercial came on, he'd notice again where he was, ask me what was going on, and then yell at me again. The brutal cycle continued: him forgetting, him remembering and yelling, until finally (what seemed like hours but was probably more like 10 minutes) the nurse came to take us back.

Like a switch, dad was back to his amicable self, joking around with the nurse. We showed him his new room that I had set up to include pictures of his family, furniture we found on Facebook Marketplace, and some clothes and other necessities. He immediately pointed out that he could see our hill from his window and was pleased with how close we were. We all chatted for a while - the nurse had a few questions to ask, and all was going well. Then it was time for lunch. I was surprised my dad wanted to go since we had just had breakfast at Cracker Barrel beforehand, but we all walked to the dining area and he immediately started chatting with all of the people there - nurses and other residents alike. I decided to take this opportunity to make my exit - promising him that I'll be back, reminding him how close we are, and telling him I'll check in daily. He didn't even hear me, he was too busy talking to the person next to him. What a relief.

Located just down the hill from our house!

Garden area

It has now been over a month since that move-in day, and he continues to thrive there. We visit every day and take him out at least once a week. The nurses and caregivers say that he makes everyone laugh and he's engaged in all of the activities they do. One of his favorite things there is to sing karaoke to Elvis. One of the nurses has even told me that she's been doing this for over 10 years, and he's been her favorite male resident (I guess many of them are crochety, lol, but my dad is always so pleasant). His falls have minimalized because they check on him every hour at night and someone is nearby always.

Taken from one of the nurses, lol. Despite his face, they said he had a blast!

The sad thing to me is that, because of his disease, he can't tell me all of the great things that he does because he just simply can't remember. He doesn't remember the singing or the crafts or even what he ate just minutes before I arrive. He doesn't remember when he goes to PT or OT or when the volunteer from church brings him weekly communion. Nothing sticks anymore. Even names are getting forgotten, as he sometimes calls me one of his siblings names- or my own children, he'll call by his nephew/niece's names. He doesn't remember that I've taken him to church or where/what he did on our outings.

I can see, then, how easy it would be to just "stick him in a home and leave him there." But I refuse to do so. Because even though he doesn't remember what we do after the fact, he still enjoys things "in the moment." So I will still visit every day, even if it is just to pop in to say hi. We will still take him to Mass every week and go out to meals. My kids will still have a relationship with their Lolo because I, too, want to teach them that being in a memory care facility does not change the core of who he is and who we are to him.

Xavier loves visiting his Lolo

In fact, I can already see that this experience is shaping my own children into being more empathetic and caring citizens, especially to the elderly. Felicity had a quick bond with one of the residents from the beginning and realized one day that she hadn't seen her in a while. When she asked the nurses where she was and found out that she had passed away, Lissie was inconsolable for hours. It reminded her of her Lola, made her realize that all of these people she sees now will pass away one day, and she was also crying for her Lolo. But the experience just helped her to see that everyone can use a little love, care, and kindness, regardless of age.

We had halo-halo, Filipino food, and karaoke after church one day.

So I guess the point to my story is that I don't want to hide from my decision anymore. Sure, there will always be people who disagree with me. In fact, I would've disagreed with myself if I hadn't been living through it and seen just what an impossible situation I had been in. But now, I don't think of moving my dad as being a "cop-out" anymore, but a necessity.

I also believe in my heart that God had led me to this stage. God brought us to California in March to plant that seed that we can't do it ourselves. God also amazingly allowed California to be the last time my dad smoked a cigarette, which is also a key reason why we could even think about allowing my dad to be in a residence where smoking isn't allowed. God opened up doors to show me my options, and He made sure that the closest facility was also the one that would be the best fit for us. God helped my dad have a great experience there and is also allowing my own core family to breathe better knowing that my dad is safe. It also has allowed us all to have a better relationship with my dad again. He's happy to see us and catch up with us and talk with us, which was way different from when we were at home and he was so unhappy with everyone and generally unpleasant to be around, not asking about us or caring about our days.

Moving my dad doesn't mean that I don't love him In fact, in many ways, it shows that I truly do.

I will, always and forever, be a daddy's girl.