My wife mentioned to me that she would start praying for God to ease Dad's suffering. To take him to a better place. She mentioned this after our latest visit with Dad. It leaves me with mixed emotions. I felt this emotion that she is now about a little over a month ago when I visited Dad at Englewood Hospital. He wouldn't open his eyes or respond to my voice. I thought he'd be better off dead. But who am I? How can I pass that sentence? As much as it's painful to see him like "this", the more I realize it's not in my hands. It's not really in his hands either. Or anyone's for that matter. Depending on your spiritual construct, it's in the hands of something none of us knows for sure what hands it's in. But all I can say with certainty is that it's beyond me. In the meantime, what is in my hands? The moments I share with him. I'm tired of feeling guilty for not embellishing all of his moments because nobody else will. I'm tired of pressuring myself to make something out of my experiences with my Dad. If there truly is anything worth broadcasting, it will happen in due time. But what I am not tired of is spending time with my Dad and making some of his moments, however few of them it is, be beautiful. And this picture. This picture here was one of those moments. Incidentally, he was focusing on my wife. Because more than anyone I know, she's able to bring out those moments in any of us. Moments with her are beautiful. And this is a moment between my dad and my wife. I was just catching the shot.

Yesterday, I arrived at the medical unit in Englewood Hospital around noon. He was snoozing and hiccuping, at a rate of probably 30 hiccups per minute. The aide said she had just finished feeding him. His appetite was good, especially considering the ravenous two bowls of cereal he had had for breakfast. She fed him some meat and potatoes, but he didn't want all the potatoes and apparently was somewhat vocal in that. I tried waking him up. I shook his hand. I tapped his chest. I ran my fingers through his gray hair, which for the first time in my life that I could remember wasn't brushed to the side. Even sloppily. His forehead was a bit clammy. I called "Dad", "Pop", "Buddy", "John", "JY". No response. He wouldn't respond. The aide said something like talk to him, he'll hear what you're saying. But I mean... I don't talk to him. I do, but it's private. And even then, I need him on the other end to respond. I need a little quack quack here, even though it didn't occur to me to sing old mcdonald to him during the moment.

A doctor came in and asked a bunch of questions that I didn't have answers for. I felt like asking him, aren't you the one who's supposed to tell me the answers to the questions you are asking? That seemed backwards. Then he asked if I could sign a consent form as power of attorney. And I could. I guess that was one thing we had taken care of in years gone by. How fortunate. My dad declined and apparently insisted on not getting long term care insurance, but I was able to sign a document to let him get an endoscopy to find the root cause to those hiccups.

After I signed the consent, I returned to his room. I tried a few more times to awaken him. At one point, I thought I was in business as he opened his eyes. They opened. Looked blankly at me for a second, and definitely not longer, and then closed.

I don't know. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't.

So now we need to find a new living arrangement for Dad. By the way, Wyeth and Elan yesterday announced that their drug for Alzheimer's in Phase II testing had hit the primary endpoint in roughly 50% of the Alzheimer's patients studied who are non-carriers of the ApoE4 gene. But unfortunately, it's most likely false hope for a bunch of reasons I don't feel like getting into. The occurence made me consider an important question. Do you give it to my Dad? No, not unless it has a great chance of reversing the disease so that he gets out of this "home". The last thing I'd want for him is to prolong this situation that he certainly doesn't want to be in. Let's face it, the whole thing sucks. And quite frankly we'd all be at peace with his passing, as terrible as I feel for saying that. But why should I? This is miserable. This is pain and suffering for all of us. I have the memories of him I need. And more importantly, I think his soul is ready to rest at peace. I sure hope so. Because this situation just isn't getting any better. Sure it's a moment-to-moment thing and there's peace, joy and harmony in every moment. But there will be peace, joy and harmony in the moments when all we have are the memories. Don't get me wrong. In the meantime, I hope and pray that there is another solution. One that works for all of us involved. But increasingly, it feels as though it's resting on my shoulders. Maybe that's the war and peace I'm living. I want to take care of him. I want to take care of other people, maybe. Every phone call I make to Alzheimer's this or that, it's like there's no no-brainer. Where is the no-brainer? Can I develop one?

Stay tuned for the first Peakin Comic Strip entiteld: "Living and Loving Alzheimer's". The first comic is titled: "Dad Goes to the Psychiatric Ward"

Mom said it was humorous because when they extracted a urine sample from Dad, a security guard and a male nurse held his legs down, she held his right arm down, and Paul held his left arm down. Dad cursed at Paul, what the hell was he doing? Then when the female nurse stuck the catheter up his penis, he screamed:

"GOD DAMMIT MANDI!"

I guess that's funny. I guess it's also scary. In his place, what the fuck is going on here anyway??

Note to A-B'Sop: This scene may be an interesting one to sketch for me to paint.

If I hadn't had a 101.6 fever, I would have been there for him. I think. Unless I'm full of shit, which is highly possible.

I just don't like it. I suppose it's denial. And that's not fair to either of us. Especially since sometimes I feel like the only one who actually cares.

He shouldn't have to be in this situation. Why is he? Forget the Alzheimer's, shit happens. But why is it that the environment around the Alzheimer's so crappy. Does it have to be? Is the only solution that I have to make a compromise? Would he have? Did he? Would I want my children to? Will I need to? Will I have lived my life such that it's not even a question of making a compromise but a desire?

The few times I have seen Michael at the home, he was always seated with his head hanging a little low. He always had a friendly expression on his face. I wonder who he was when he once was....

I remember the first day we walked in the home and my Dad showed off. He entertained the crowd with his daft dance moves and his flirtatious "Hiya honeys", even to some of the men. Michael was seated at the right hand of the TV.

I recently found out that Michael passed away a couple weeks ago. It occurred to me to post about him to recognize his passing and to pay him tribute.

Michael, I hope you rest in peace. I'm sorry for never making an effort to know you and love you personally. God bless you and keep you in peace.

We met my parents at the nursing home. It took a few minutes for them to emerge, which I soon found out was due to an emergency bathroom break. When they did walk out, my Mom was well ahead of my Dad. He was trailing behind in his newfound shuffle, which I blame rightly or wrongly on the nursing home and not on the Alzheimer's. I greeted them, wished them a Happy Easter. He said "It's nice out".

Once we were on my way, I was reminded of the unpleasantness of being with my Dad: the hack and wipe mucus on your hands and on your clothes and my new car thing. I practiced looking at the bigger picture. Enjoying being with him and more importantly giving him the gift of some pleasant moments surrounded by people who ease his nearly impervious uncertainty.

We arrived at the church. I helped Dad out of the car. He seems so frail. Like there's no "get out there and run" left in him. It's more like "stumble out and shuffle". We shuffled across the parking lot, up the steps, which he was able to count out-loud with me.

The service was bearable. I felt bad because I was very disinterested in it. Maybe it was partially due to the slight hangover I had. Partially due to the screaming kids in the balcony, which was the only open space left when we got there. Partially the terribly loud, off-pitch, clumsy trumpeter in the choir.

My dad hacked, wiped mucus on his hands. His nose hairs were too long. His coat had stains on it. So did his shoes. His appearance spoke to me of his care as: "Hey, there's no shit in his pants, what else do you want? And just in case he's wearing two diapers." I couldn't quite place his nacho aroma on Doritos or Combos. But knowing it was neither, I couldn't figure out what smelled. Was it his breath? Was it his clothes? Was it his body? Was it the lingering smell of the nursing home itself? Either way the untrimmed nose hairs really made me wish I had remembered my nose clippers this time. And how did I forget my packet of tissues? I suppose I was too engulfed in myself before we left to be prepared for the experiences I've learned to expect.

I smiled as he sang along with the hymns, laughing a bit at knowing he was neither singing the "right" words nor even opened to the "right" page in the hymnal. If it was even the hymnal he had open. But happy to know that the spirit of singing took hold of him and he was singing. We were singing. He was singing. What difference does the song make?

And then came the Lord's Prayer. And to my amazement he knocked out the first few verses. "Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed by thy name...." I'm not sure where he dropped off, but I was impressed that he said any of it.

At one point during the service, he began crying. He turned to me and said "You're a good boy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. boo hoo hoo" I said, "Buddy, don't be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. You're a good boy. I love you" He said, "I love you." I vaguely remember him saying he was a bad boy, but I am not positive of this.

I don't know why he felt the way he did. Or why he said what he said. But one thing I am beginning to understand is that among the layers of uncertainties and questions, one thing is for certain. He was feeling sad and guilty. And I comforted him as best I could. I recognized his emotion and know how it feels and whatever he feels guilty about, it's ok. It is what it is. There were two possible scenarios that entered my mind when he was apologizing. It was either that he felt guilty for having the disease and/or being a "burden". Or that on some level he was apologizing for years of missed opportunities between father and son. Either way, we are in the present. And neither of us can change the circumstances of our being, but we can be together and love each other's being.

After the service, we went to Macaroni Grill for lunch. He really had a hearty appetite and ate well, which made me happy. Even if he was using his hands to eat linguine and seafood. Whatever, utensils are just some realm of reason anyway.

I asked him a couple times if he was having fun. One time he responded with a confused look. I think I put my hands up, I'm not sure why. But he stood up in his seat. Raised his fists, started shaking them at me. And gave me a very intense stare. I thought he may jump across the table to swing at me. In the moment, I was scared. My feelings were hurt. What had I done to evoke this emotional response that he wanted to hit me? It got pretty scary. People at the other tables looked over in shock at what was going on? He said "Come on. Come at me. Hit me. Put your hands up." We were all a bit scared. Tiff was especially concerned as she was sitting next to him, so she gave him a stern look. He sat down as the new emotion was "Oh there's Tiff. Hi gorgeous." After he sat down, he said "Did you like that?" She said, "no." He asked, "Why not?" She said, because I thought it was scary. That was really his only outburst.

There were some other aspects of lunch that I would like to note and maybe revisit later. Most notably was my Mom opening up a bit about her feelings. She's sad and feels guilty. I think she's most sad that soon after his retirement he was loveable and happy-go-lucky and friendly. She mentioned a few people who only knew him in the years shortly after his retirement who have expressed such sadness that such a friendly guy had been struck by a devastating disease. At one point, she said she would have loved things if they had stayed the same as the first couple years because he was so much more pleasant. She expressed remorse that he had been so focused on work, his career, money and that "we were the lowest on the totem pole". When she used the word "we" I think she meant both we as in "the family" and "He and I" as in their marriage.

The pain and sadness my Mom feels is one of the learning lessons to take from this. It exemplifies the essence of how I don't want to be like my father. The contrast is the friendly lovable nature that was now so obviously underlying that persona and those pressures he had placed upon himself. Going back to his childhood. He undertook the American Dream and placed it squarely on his shoulders. Son of a poor immigrant, he would make something of himself. He passed the baton. The question is how do I carry it?

She's pretty stone and regurgative.

She just returned from a 2 week or so trip to Cancun.

With a scattered covered and smothered group of people.

Chunked. Diced. Waffle House good mix of people.

Jimmy Roselle died. It was the day after the Super Bowl... went to sleep... he was hot... he was dead.

Uncle Jimmy-

Uncle Jimmy was a fireman, good ole NYFD. Retired years ago. Lived in NJ. Was a giant Giants fan. And the man was a bear. As big as a bear. As cuddly as a bear. As warm as a bear.

And Uncle Jimmy was Dad's best friend from at least high school, if not before. They were two hot stud football players. "Hiiiii-ya Johnny. Do you wanna dance?" One step Two. Jimmy was my dad's best man in the wedding.

She told him Jimmy Roselle died.

For the most part recently, I am feeling relief. And guilt for feeling relief. And I'm not overwhelmed by the grief. And it definitely feels guilty... when I feel it. But when I'm not feeling the guilt, I'm feeling good.

This entire month I've been wanting to go see dad. But at the same time, very hesitant. Whatever. I don't even feel like writing about it. We went. We watched basketball. He was happy to see us. It was nice.

Tiffany and I left Manhattan at 5:20 PM. We arrived at Potomac shortly past 6:30. We entered the home to find the residents seated in the living room. There was the guy next to the TV, not picking his nose, but with his finger near it. There were the quiet ladies seated on the couch, gazing in the direction of the TV and then at Tiff and me. I adjusted myself and put on a smile, realizing that I wasn't smiling not because I was in a nursing home but because generally speaking my moment-to-moment temperment is choleric and left unmonitored dominated by neuroticism. So I became happy to see my dad.

Dad shuffled over. Slowly. A very noticeable change since a month ago when we dropped him off and since my Christmas day visit. Maybe it was a bad day. Maybe it's how he walks now. I don't know. It's definitely a shift in a pattern that I'm familiar with -> high energy. His energy was low. And if this is the start of a trend, then I am saddened and accusatory (that it's his being in the nursing home causing it). He wasn't shaven. His sweater was tucked in, which is normal lately. His belt was on normally, a change from my mom's adjustment to put it on backwards to prevent him peeing on the floor.

Dad's eyes lit up when he saw Tiff. He hugged her and said "Hey Good-looking". He hugged me. I can't say I felt he was as excited to see me as Tiff, which may be customary. Perhaps I was sensitive to feeling guilty, but I felt a grudge on some basic level. Sort of similarly to how a mother knows what her baby's feeling. You just know it.

As we walked out the front door, he asked "We're coming back here right?" Wasn't very sure how to interpret that. Did he want to go back or not? Seemed like he was OK with coming back.

We walked him out to the car. Again, slowly. We drove to Chili's and attempted to break the ice, which was somewhat more difficult than normal. He asked how I was handling things or something like that. I wanted to see what he would discuss about the home. If anything. I asked how the ladies were treating him. He said "It's not the same." WHAT ISN'T THE SAME?? WHAT?? That it's not my mom? That's what I think it was. Then he went on to say something about when he was younger or definitely sometime prior to that moment, he was the main guy when it came to the ladies. So I don't know. But whatever it was, it was definitely downtrodden and low self-esteem and/or disappointment.

Whatever else was discussed was a little forced and I wanted to get him opened up, find that energy and expression I'm used to getting out of him. So I went with the trusted method: singing.

"Hey, you know any good songs?"

"Donald McDonald?"

OK, know it. "Old McDonald had a farm. Eee-eye-eee-eye-o.... On the farm... Duck."

His quacks were off. His quacks were quiet. The next verse when I stuck in a dog, he didn't quack instead of bark. He didn't do any audible animal sound. The next verse when I stopped, so did he. Usually he'll keep going, at least a few words.

Then I came in with "Chandaloon, metza-mal." To which he joined and continued "Metza-mala italiana.... hey hey hey appec-italiana".

We entered the parking lot. Tiff helped him out the back while I readjusted my crooked parking job. Tiff said he said "Hey Good-looking. Where's Richie?" So at least he still knows my name and the association of Tiffany and me. He asked how he knew her. She said she's his daughter-in-law. Excitedly he asked her "Really? How'd that happen?"

We walked in Chili's and were seated. He asked for his regular: Diet Pepsi NO ICE. And definitely no water. Do NOT bring the water. I mean, who drinks "that crap"?

I set up the video camera and began rolling. He opened up a bit, showed a bit of that energy I'm accustomed to. He asked me if I was having fun. I said yeah, are you having fun? He said "No." That really worried me. Why did he say no? This was shortly after he commented that he guessed Chili's was nice enough or not too bad a place. I said yeah it is nice. But it's really nice to see you. He said, it is not nice. What wasn't nice? What?? I'm almost positive it wasn't that we were with him. Or that he wasn't in the home. I suspect, without any proof to offer, that it was his being in the home. That he was someplace he knew he didn't want to be. And that on some level, he was holding me accountable for that.

We ordered an appetizer sampler of boneless buffalo wings, chicken crispers, mozzarella sticks, and nachos. He really enjoyed the chicken crispers and eating the blue cheese dressing off his finger off the plate. He didn't seem to care for the nachos. He definitely didn't care for the celery sticks. He actually drank water. I was stunned that he even did. I think he was looking for something to squash the heat of the jalapenos. But even still. He drank that crap. Amazing. He commented that it was bland, at least.

One bright note was that I took him to the bathroom after dinner and the routine was more relaxed than it has been in the past. He didn't exhibit any anxiety or depression, which I had grown accustomed to handling when he was living with my mom.

We got back in the car. We drove back to Potomac Homes. We walked him to his room. He didn't seem to recognize the familiarity of it, but we did just take him out for the first time since he had been there so there was definitely a location adjustment going on.

He didn't want to put his pajama pants on. At least without removing his slacks. Which isn't a change at least from recently. He didn't want us to go. He was worried we wouldn't be there. We told him we were going to bed too and that we'd see him in the morning. He got very upset when we shut the light. I turned it back on and said "Buddy, I love you. Don't worry. I'm not leaving you." I gave him a hug. He gave me sweet little kisses on my neck and cheek, sort of similar to the ones I give Tiffany. He said I was heavy. I got up. Told him I loved him and we'd see him in the morning.

I hate lying. I hate lying to him. But what is the right thing to say? What is the right thing to do? It breaks my heart knowing I'm lying to him. But I will see him soon. I'm not disappearing.

The whole thing is painful. I started thinking about his eulogy since I was feeling like this is the start of a rapid decline. And yeah, the times I've had were great. I sent a collection of moments, about 60 minutes in length, to Curtis G to review. When I watched it on Sunday, I laughed. I enjoyed it. Now it's like... I wish I had some of those moments again. Despite anyone who may be familiar with my dad even just a year ago and certainly a handful of years ago, would see those as sad. For me, they're the best I've ever had. And it's slipping. Fortunately, I believe I am in a mindset that I am enjoying every moment with him, even the worst of times. And I don't know... There's something depressing about that. And then I realized at his passing, I'll remember the man with Alzheimer's. For better or for worse. This is the lasting impression he will have on my life.

Is that encouraging or is it discouraging? I suppose it's a matter of choice.

He has developed a bathroom anxiety. So he constantly thinks he has to go. It's become increasingly more difficult to determine when he must go from when he wants to go. Constant trips to the bathroom become extremely disruptive to the care provider, which led to the care provider's compliance with going with him each time low. This led to more mess to clean up. As his anxiety increased and his awareness of modern plumbing declined, he began urinating at need and in location. Sometimes the awareness of "going to a proper place" to relieve himself led him to places we would consider unproper. The closet. The trash can. The rug in another room. It also led to increased bedwetting.

Oral communication also became trying. Previously he was able to tell stories. To express himself. To get things out. His desire to communicate is still there, but the ability to do so has become impaired as well as our ability to interpret his expressions. Which led to anger and frustration. The general disposition has also evolved to one more of anger and frustration, which has scared caretakers and visitors.

At a point, it becomes unbearable from our perspective to bear the burden of self-sacrifice. So we enrolled him at Potomac Homes, a home for Alzheimer's and dementia afflicted people. But this conflicts squarely with another heightened anxiety - his desire to be "at home".

I'm not sure where home is. Home is a transient concept. The concept of which still resonates in his mind. The location of which I'm not entirely sure. In any case, Potomac Homes is not "home" from his perspective. I'm not sure what it is from his perspective. A "nursing home"? A place we're disposing of him because he's being bad? Purgatory? Hell? Not home?

This past Tuesday, Mom, Tiffany, and I took him to Potomac Homes to drop him off. We sat at a table in the social gathering room. Tiffany and I gave him his Christmas gifts - two stuffed animals, a Chihuahua and a Boxer. He was immediately drawn to the Boxer, who he named "Joe" and wore on his head, backwards, to elicit attention. And this was very funny, but also remarkable in his ability to maintain enough balance to keep it on his head as he walked around, squatted up and down, turned his head. He didn't seem to care much about the Chihuahua, who he named "Piccalarry", which is odd considering he's only had Chihuahuas for at least the past 40 years.

Eventually the novelty of the toys and being "someplace other than home" wore off. He wanted to "go home." And eventually to "get the hell out of here". He became enraged. "Fuck you." "Fuck this place." "Get me the fuck out of here."

Mom and Tiffany went upstairs to prepare his bedroom. I stayed with Dad. We walked around a bit. We went to the bathroom, where he had difficulty defecating and became depressed with his state. "I hate myself." "What is my problem?"

We walked around the home. He queried how we could escape. "How can we get out of here?" "If we can just get outside, we can jump the wall." "What do you want me to do?" "How can I be good?"

I told him he should help the others in the room. To make them laugh. To give them hope. He told me has a problem. Why does he have a problem? He'd do anything not to be bad. Where is Ann? Get her to get me out of here.

We sat in the TV area of the gathering room, where the other residents were staring at or ignoring Oprah. He didn't want to sit on that fucking couch. He got up. He wanted to show me how we could escape. He went straight to the front door, unlocked it, and we walked out. He was proud. Of figuring out how to escape. It broke my heart to tell him we had to go back inside; it broke his as well.

Knowing that Mom is a figure of comfort for him, I took him upstairs to the bedroom. He asked to speak to my mom in the hall where he firmly and lucidly expressed his extreme discontent about being there and that he wanted to go home now. After my mom assuaged him, he came back in the room. Almost immediately his mood was turned as he saw us eagerly and happily setting this room, whatever it was, in order. He and I sat on the bed. And closed our eyes, holding the puppies. He dozed off, at which point I determined it was probably as good a time as any to leave. Despite not wanting to "ditch him", I felt it was the right time.

We put our coats on, which was a mistake. That led him to wanting his coat since it was obvious we were leaving. This makes me think that we cannot wear coats to or from the building. I suppose bearing with the cold is one sacrifice me may need to make. Our presence, while temporal and transient, must seem eternal if intermittent.

He got enraged and searched for his coat. He got violently upset when we were seemingly heading out without him. The staff suggested that we "slip out". So I distracted him, took him back upstairs to move some furniture around. Mom and Tiff slipped out without him knowing. One of the staff tried to get him in the elevator so I could slip away, but he wasn't leaving my side.... So I got in the elevator with him. He said "Fuck you Ann." When we got to the first floor, the elevator opened. A staff member put her arm around him as he cursed and stammered and led him to the gathering room. Behind his back, she pointed to the front door. And I walked out.

Devestated. Guilt-ridden. Sad. Nervous. Sick.

"Rich. You're a good guy. You know how to hold your hands and all that kind of stuff."

Unfortunately, I was unable to record the conversation like I have with many others. There were a lot of things he said I wish I had. In a way it's fitting because I've forgotten the specifics of what we discussed, but I remember the feeling. I feel the feeling. And I remember the opening line, where he expressed the feeling he remembers:

"Buddy, thanks for watching over me and being there for me. I really appreciate it and I love you so much for everything you've done for me. You are a great son and you are a good guy. I'm proud of you.'

I can't prove it. But I know it.

I just took a shit at work. To call it a shit, doesn't really give a full description of it. I had Chipotle soft chicken tacos last night. With the hot sauce. I woke up crampy. By midday, the diarrheal urge was imperative. So when I sat and relieved myself on the toilet, after building a nest of course, the splat that emerged was rapid and wet.

And I sat. And meditated on my paraphrased version of Gospel. "Love with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind. This is the first and greatest opportunity. And the next is like it: Love all others as yourself."

Unfortunately for my shirt sleeve, my meditation distracted my mind from executing a proper wipe. And I said:

"Shit."

*******************
This entry while on the surface may seem unrelated. It is only one piece of the puzzle. As a hint, you'll have to look for video from Thanksgiving Eve 2007. Granted, that's a big hint.