The Long Good-Bye

Nancy Reagan called Alzheimer’s Disease, “The Long Good-Bye.” And so it is. We’ve been saying farewell to Super Hubs’ father for a number of years now. We’ve watched him tragically deteriorate from an intelligent, high-energy gentleman to a shell of a person with the aptitude of less than an infant. He’s lived in a nursing home in Connecticut for about 5 years, being cared for by the nursing staff.

Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s shortly before Little Squirt was born, and the contrast between the two of them was heartbreaking to observe. As our baby’s brain developed, Dad’s deteriorated. As our baby reached milestones, Dad declined. Little Squirt began to use words while Dad began to lose words. Our child began to feed himself with a spoon while Dad forgot what the spoon was for. On one visit to their home when Little Squirt was a toddler, not wanting to take a nap, he jumped into Dad’s lap to escape from us. Dad clung to him, and they rocked together. I watched them for a bit. Grandfather and Grandson. They were peaceful, each comforting the other in a child-like way. They were 64 years apart, and yet about the same age mentally. They babbled, they toddled, they needed assistance with activities of daily living. But as one was embracing life, and the other leaked life.

Little Squirt calls him “The Grandpa Who Can’t Talk Or Walk,” and he’s never known him any other way. He accepts and embraces his grandfather, who has the abilities of an infant. He prays that God will “fix Grandpa’s voice” and “make his legs better.” But he's really okay with his grandpa as he is.

But The Teens know better. They recall Dad as being a kind, gentle man who knew everything about everything, and would take them on fabulous outings. They remember how he used to be. So when I told them at lunch today that Grandpa was forgetting how to eat and a feeding tube would not be in his future, which meant that death was impending, and possibly in the next few months, they cried. It was a miserable meal at a restaurant over chicken wings. Then they were mad at me for telling them when they’d been having fun. I got the Bad Timing Award. But when is a good time to remind them that Grandpa is dying? And begin to prepare them for his funeral? I don’t know that there would be a better time. It’s never easy. It’s hard on us all.