Footnote

"Is this the daughter of ___________________  ?"

     She doesn't sound like a bill collector.  Bill collectors always sound nasty, like I am the criminal refusing to pay his bills.  There are no papers signed.  He wouldn't sign any.  And now it is too late.  He is not able to legally advocate for himself.  He is no longer a viable adult.  His pants are ragged because he refuses to spend any money to get new ones.  Sometimes he puts flesh-colored sticky pads on the rips.
 

"Someone reported him as ... "

     I wonder who.  The last guy I talked with from the V.A. about some money that my dad owes?  During that conversation, Dad was yelling in the background, "You aren't telling him right.  I don't owe them any money."  This statement of massive entitlement from my father-- my dad who had taught me that there is no such thing as a free lunch and that anything worth having was worth working for.  He had taught me that ages ago, in another time, before the dementia started rotting out his brain.  
     Now, he refuses to pay any bills.  Unfortunately, his ability to dial the phone has remained intact.  Just the other day, he screamed at the dentist's receptionist, "Who are you to tell me that I owe 160 dollars?  I've only had the dentures for three weeks and they broke."  This is becoming more than a theme.  This is becoming a gigantic problem of emo-epic proportion.
 

"We want your father to come in for a competency test ..."

     I know what the testing will show.  It will show what I already know and what I've known for months.  Dad is rapidly losing his battle to make some order out of his shattered life.  He shifts papers around, has no clue how much money he has in his checking account, stopped subtracting the numbers months ago.  He does not understand that he has had his partial plate for more than a year now, that he owes some co-pays for his health care, that he will never get a job selling cars again, that he will never drive again,  have his own apartment or a woman sleeping besides him in bed and having coffee with him in the morning before he goes off to work again.  He will never stop off at the neighborhood bar for a cold one again.  He will never walk to the corner store by himself again.  He cannot find his way home again.  His diminishing insight has tumbled to zero.  I am left holding my tears.  He denies that there is anything amiss with his neurology now.  He did know for awhile but not anymore.  Who's to say which way is "better"?
 

"The only other appointment is at 4 p.m. and that is too late."

     Yes, you are quite right.  The later appointment is too late.  Yes, of course I will bring him down.  He is my father and I love him.  Every time I think I've had it, it gets worse and worse.  It's a nightmare that I can't wake up from.  Sometimes, we can do all of the right things and the right things don't happen.  There is no longer any hope, not even the hope that he will die quietly in his sleep soon before the real horror has set in.  The real horror is setting in.  And I cannot stop it.  And so, the appointment is made for a competency test which my father has zero chance of passing.


"See you then..."

     Dad never wanted to live here.  He was happy with his second family, with business as usual until the bottom fell out and he lost it all.  When his world comes crashing down, I have to rescue him.  Over and over again, I fix the time on his clock or reset his cell phone or tell him that he has had a complete workup of his head and no Dad, there really isn't any tumor there and no Dad, you don't have brain cancer no Dad, that scab on your leg does not mean that it will go septic and they will have to cut your leg off.  I know that one day I won't be able to reach him.  This is a nightmare from which I don't think I will ever wake up.  This is my father's nightmare and he will never return from it whole and alive.

sapphoq on life