We watched the evening news, the screen flanked by windows allowing a backyard view; the headline being the Israel and Iran bombing exchange. I glanced at my watch, in 45 minutes I needed to leave for a “Sleep Study” to observe if I had sleep apnea.
It had been 25 years since I shared a sleepless night in a motel room with my father who, at the time, didn’t realize he had sleep apnea. With my suggestion augmenting that of his wife, he participated in a “Sleep Study” which led to his forever sleep partner – a CPAP device. Had that experience been an unknowing glance into a crystal ball?
My parents divorced when I was in my thirties and later remarried. Both were/are fortunate to have competent loving spouses to care for them in their final years. My father is now 89 years old and lives with dementia. We resist using the word Alzheimer’s; my mother died from that at age 85.
As the televised news neared its end, I was surprised to see an old man in a green cap creep by the windows. It was my dad! I went to the back lanai to greet him.
There he stood, proud as a peacock with his defining smirk, suggesting he had gotten away with something. I greeted him in the lanai saying, “Hi Dad.” He struggled to explain that he had knocked at the door but, getting no answer, went around back to see if we were there.
I asked, “Where is Gloria?” I learned she was home and he had ridden his bike here alone. He was obviously proud of his accomplishment and disappointed not to be praised. I asked where his helmet was and he patted the top of his head saying, “I guess I forgot it.” He could tell I wasn’t happy with him and offered to leave. I said, “Well since you’re here, let’s visit awhile.” Visiting is difficult without him wearing his hearing aids. I had Darlene call Gloria and tell her Dad was here. She was surprised as they had been watching television when he said he was going to bed. She had no idea he was out.
I provided him with a helmet and followed him home on his electric assist bicycle. He cruised at 16 mph and rode responsibly straight home. There, I returned Dad to Gloria who said to him, “You told me you were going to bed.” I still had time to get to my scheduled overnight sleep study.
Not two years ago, my dad and step-mom moved into the same gated 55-plus community as us, now living less than a mile away. We had hoped that Dad, a man who loves to ride his bicycle, could safely enjoy doing so within its confines. But, too often he could not find his way home leading to searches for him.
Onetime, a good Samaritan found him, and his bike crashed in a cul-de-sac. Determining his injuries minor, the Samaritan loaded him and his bike in his van and offered to drive Dad home, but Dad didn’t know where that was. On Dad’s wrist was the engraved bracelet we had him wear for just an occurrence, but Dad forgot he had it on and the citizen didn’t know to look.
Realizing Dad was missing, his wife and I anxiously searched the neighborhoods for him. I spotted a van trolling the streets, and in the passenger seat was my dad. I flagged them down. It’s odd the things a person with dementia remembers and the things they don’t. Dad had remembered his wife’s phone number and the good Samaritan had tried to call it but her phone was dead.
That led to us locking Dad’s bike up; not to punish him, but to protect him. I told him to call any time and I would bike with him. Failed idea as more often than not, Dad cannot operate his phone. Most times when I would stop by and suggest a bike ride, he didn’t feel like it or had been drinking. Alcohol is one of his remaining joys.
Months passed, and one day the timing was right for Dad and I to ride. I could see the joy in his eyes as we pedaled his neighborhood. It reminded me of when I first taught my sons to ride a bike. I remembered when Dad had taught me to bike, and the day he let me go. My dad’s joy of bike riding had transcended from him to me and onto my sons.
Was the price of joy worth the risk? He assured me he would stay in his neighborhood, wear his helmet, and not ride after drinking. These are conditions you might expect to be met by your child, but not your parent with dementia of which forgetfulness is a symptom. Parenting your parent is different than parenting your child.
I don’t want to lock his bike up again, but he cannot adhere to safety rules and is now sneaking out of the house in the evening. What to do? I wonder what the crystal ball that showed me sleep apnea so long ago is showing me now. Each chapter is different in life's journey, and it just might be better not to read ahead.
Right here – Right now.