I Was Only 12 When Dad Got Dementia

He came home from his job as a cook at the prison–it was an odd gig. His voice cracked as he admitted to my mom that he had been fired because he was smuggling cigarettes to inmates. A look of defeat and hopelessness hung over him. My mom, a woman with a fiery temper, immediately started screaming. She couldn’t fathom the idiocy of my dad’s careless choices that would eventually force us to move out of our beloved home.

Thankfully, we were able to sell and downsize before we lost it. Shortly after his immediate disposal, he was diagnosed with mild to moderate vascular dementia. His type of dementia is from not taking his high blood pressure meds…figure that.

The onset of his disease is honestly a blur. I was only twelve, after all. My dad started acting weird, but in retrospect, I didn’t really know what was right. He couldn’t hold down a job and he started working with his friend Hobie, who earned a living as a local sign maker. My dad spent his time there, as his assistant, basically just hanging out. On most days, he would come home with little to no money because Hobie just didn’t feel like paying him. It was definitely an interesting experience.

My dad started repeating himself, like a lot. I grew aggravated, ignorant of his condition and what to expect from him. He was transforming into a person who wouldn’t listen when I spoke and didn’t find value in anything I had to say.

As a tween, this was difficult for me to understand, and my mom definitely didn’t help. Her grieving was blanketed in never-ending rage. She began to hate my father since he was unable to provide or do much of anything. I was misguided and began to distrust him, fading away because I just couldn’t make sense of what was going on.

My parents always struggled financially, and with no formal education or determination to succeed, I watched both of them gradually deteriorate, both mentally and physically. We moved a number of times. Initially, we ventured to a 55+ condo near my aunt. I had to “hide” since I was underage, and my mom drove me to school to keep me in the same district. We lied and used my cousin’s address. My dad worked with Hobie during this time.

Things increasingly worsened. There were a handful of times that my dad had wandered along a busy road. Cops brought him home and warned us that something had to be done or my mom would be in trouble for elder abuse. He eventually couldn’t work, so he stayed home.

Her grieving was blanketed in never-ending rage.

For a few years, this was okay…until it wasn’t. People with dementia develop strange habits. For my dad, this meant leaving the stove on, turning the heat up to the max, raiding the fridge, and giving the dog so much table food (specifically Cheerios) that she was physically ill.

He worsened.

My mom and I decided it’d be best for all of us if my dad was in a nursing home. We couldn’t afford an at-home nurse, and my mom could not manage to work full-time, being a mom, and being a caregiver, too. She was always on edge, anxiety-ridden, and completely illogical.

It was around this time that my behavioral outbursts were so salient that a social worker would regularly come to the house. In retrospect and as a psychology graduate, she did more harm than good, always siding with my mom. It was gaslighting on a whole other level, and my behavior and mental health plummeted as a result.

My dad was in a home, by this point, not too far from our then house. It was hard to get him into a decent one because he had shit insurance. Elder abuse took on a whole new meaning for me. There was one Christmas that we couldn’t see him because there were bed bugs in the joint. The home was filthy, without hot water or appropriate food. My mom fought tirelessly with social workers to get the home shut down.

It was heart-wrenching and disgusting to witness a level of greed so grand. With no disregard for the residents whatsoever, we relocated my dad to another nursing home, also local. He’s been there around seven years, and he complains all the time, “They don’t know how to cook. They don’t know what garlic is here!” “It’s better than bed bugs, no?” I joke lightheartedly as he booms in big belly laughter.

I’m 24 years old now, and my dad has dementia. Now he’s 76. Yes, my parents are old–I’m aware. I have gone through the cycles of grieving the dad I once knew many times. Now as an adult, I have developed a compassionate relationship with my dad, patient and understanding in nature.

It took years of hard work in therapy to get there, but I did it! Growing up, there were many times that I was mean to my dad because I resented him for letting his health get the best of him.

I have a vivid memory from middle school when my dad came to the car to kiss me goodbye, and I just sort of dismissed him. My friend asked me why I was so mean to my dad and told me that he was so kind and sweet. She couldn’t understand why I acted the way I did, and I didn’t want to explain it to her, embarrassed and confused about how I should be behaving.

Every day is a journey, and my mom is still experiencing her own process. She’s mean and resentful for many reasons unnecessary to mention, so she and I most often visit my dad separately to avoid anxiety attacks and repulsive quarrels.

My dad is a good man. I love him and have accepted his disease. He has short-term memory loss and repeats himself quite often, but he never forgets how much he loves me, my mom, and our dog Bella.

His memory is not terrible. When presented with something new, it takes him a while to remember, but then he gets it. He loves to dance, eat homemade Italian food, and sing along to the Beatles. He’s my dad and I’m grateful that he loves me so much. He may forget a lot, but he’ll never forget about me, that I’m certain of.

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