My Dad is Dying...

My dad is dying. 

It’s not cancer. Something that attacks the body in some isolated capacity - indiscriminately. Many of my friends and acquaintances have battled that war waged on their body, all with varying levels of success or failure, depending on when it struck them, where it attacked, how long it was active before being discovered, and the treatment entailed and the state of their health when the battle began.

Cancer, as gruesome and terrible as it can be in some cases… still provides a sense of a battleground. A feeling of there being a fighting chance. Dad doesn’t have cancer. There is nothing we can beat back with aggressive medicines, harsh treatments, targeted removals or even alleviation with symptom removing or covering drugs. For what he has, there is no Advil. No insulin. No synthoid or thyroxine. The best the doctors can offer are mind altering meds that take down dad’s burst of agitation, the sense of something being off but he doesn’t remember what it is.

My dad has a brain disease. Something that the doctor described as producing a protein build up on the synapse connections in his brain, and over time the build up hardens and breaks. Where the breaks occur, that piece is forever removed. Gone. Unlike my almost 50 year old brain that loses a word for a second - but when I hear it, recall clearly that THAT was what I was looking for. When dad loses it from his mind, it is gone like it never existed.

My Dad’s mind is like a tree in fall. Where each leaf is a memory, a word, an ability. Daily it seems another leaf withers to lifeless shades of brown and gray, and simply disappear. Once a leaf falls, we cannot with all our best of intentions - glue them back in place. Tack them back on the tree. Show him the leaf in hopes he recalls them. The leaves that have fallen, are simply - - - - gone.

My dad is dying a slow and strange death. The man he was just a few months ago, is long gone. The one he is today, will not be here tomorrow. It is harrowing to watch. My step-mom describes it as missing her husband. The man she knew and was married to for 40 years, is no longer there. His body fills the space, but his mind, his memories, his personality, his existence… is going like the leaves on a tree in late autumn. One… at…. a… time…

He doesn’t remember his cell phone. He mentions speaking to his brothers and sisters, but does not reference the phone or calling. The laptop where he fidgeted and messed up the settings (and asking Pam to fix it back) has been shelved. He has no recall of it. His watch that sat aimlessly on his wrist no longer has any kind of purpose as time is a concept he can no longer grasp. Days of the week make no sense to him. There is nothing to get to but church and doctor visits… but he can’t keep track and doesn’t want to. He is always ready to “go see Sammy - you know he was named for me, right?” - Yeah dad, I heard… He loves his grands and he will still tell them. With that ridiculous big smile of his, and his voice set to a cartoony distortion, he will exclaim his recognition that you are departing with a “you headin’ out?” or some such quip. The “I love you” and a hug might not seem like much, but dad did not grow up with that. This was a regular recounting from him when I was a kid. “I knew my dad loved me,” dad would tell me, “but he never told us kids. The only hug or physical affection I got from dad was the ones I took as an adult. That just isn’t the way. I decided to make sure and let my kids knew I loved them because I told them, and I was determined to not let you guys get away from a hug when I saw you to bed.” 

I took this same approach with my boys. Up until the last time we were all in a house together, I would make my rounds to hug them all and tell them I loved them. On the rarer occasions than nightly that I see them, I still do the same.

Dad is slipping. Reminds me of the song he played on his stereo… “Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping… into the fu-ture.” In part, there is a strange sort of good side. He does not know it. He seems to not have a clue. He gets agitated, but with little things. He no longer has a time perspective - so his frustration is with what he can’t do right now (like a child in a high-chair.) He is constrained by inability that he can’t put a thought on what to call it. How to define it. How to resolve it. He was a brilliant computer programmer, but now struggles finding his way to the bedroom closet. He gets lost at the sink where he rummages around in the cabinet and eventually asks Pam where his clothes are. The sad in this is not Dad, because he truly isn’t “suffering.” The sad in this is those left behind who watch, remember and miss the man he was. 

I miss my dad. I love the man he still is… but I miss the many phone conversations we had every other week over the many years since I left for college. He would just check in… Trish and I are going to steal him away sometime soon to take him to listen to music. I know, that sounds odd - but when dad hears the old music from his youth and young adult years, he recalls them. It makes him smile a big toothy grin - the ear to ear variety. He sings along. Taps his feet. Points and swivels his finger like a maestro directing the band awkwardly. 

My step-mom Pam hasn’t wanted to let people know about Dad’s condition. She has feared that their knowing would distort their perspective of the man. While I am sure that may go on, we are human - right? Those who knew Samuel David Sykes - the man with the gift of gab who could and would talk to anybody like they were a long, lost friend. The man with a generous spirit, who taught me stop and help people stranded on the road side. The man who showed up every winter (with me in tow) to help Grandpa cut wood for his wood heated pot-belly stoves, and in summers loved to dig the dirt to plant gardens and shake his head at how good his dad was at it. (I say the same thing concerning my dad.) Those who knew David, will remember David… and even though it makes you feel a little awkward, you will be kind for memories sake to honor who he was.

Dad in his living did not get it all right. Just like all of us, given the chance he would redo many things. But, he was a good man. His leaves are falling fast. Most of my connections and those who will read this - don't know my dad. But if you do (or did) - if you think of him, call him sometime. Share a memory. He might not recall it - or he may. It will do you good and just hearing another person’s voice - might do him and Pam some good. And perchance you have someone like my dad in your life... they just might appreciate a call sometime too. It will do you BOTH some good.

Brian Sykes