He was a part owner of a body and fender shop for many years, and eventually was the sole owner. He retired to be a part-time farmer, when he was about sixty years old. He was a true craftsman, but the toxins did him in....

My parents died in 2006, just eleven weeks apart. My father died of Alzheimer's and my mother from liver cancer. Just before he died he forgot who my mother was. One day she came to visit him in the Alzheimer's wing of the care center, and he asked her to marry him. She laughed and said 'yes.' He died one day short of their sixty-third wedding anniversary. Recently I came across a piece I wrote when he was going downhill. It is poignant and comic. I hope it rings true with Eons readers who have someone they love with Alzheimer's, and long for repairing the past. As for my mother, there is too much to say here. She was what every child wants in a mother, and was once quite a beauty in her day. But more beautiful inside.
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Two years ago, when I visited my parents, my dad still knew who I was; now my mom has to tell him. That’s what Alzheimer’s has done to the man who I d that I realized the importance of saying
those three magic words.

Now, in my father’s final years, I find myself thinking of the things I admired about him when I was growing up: how he provided for us by working at a body and fender shop, a career he disliked, and discouraged me from pursuing; the ability to pound a nail with either hand; his honesty; the way he skillfully guided my mother around the floor when they went round dancing and square dancing.
I have come to terms with his inability to tell me how he felt about me, though it’s sad, because I can’t make amends with him, now that he doesn’t know who I am. Two years ago, when my family and I went to visit my parents, I went with the purpose of helping dad put a new battery in his pickup so he could sell it. I drove him to an auto parts store to buy the battery. The people at the counter knew who he was, but he had no memory of them. He wrote the check with some difficulty, and had to ask what the amount was, and the date,
several times. His once neat handwriting was nearly illegible. When we got back to my parents’ house, I helped put the battery in the truck. The engine
started on the first try. I shut off the ignition, and we came back in the house.
Fifteen minutes later, as we sat having a snack, dad looked anxiously out the window. “Do you think we ought to go out and see if we could get a battery for the truck?” he asked. “No, dad,” I replied, “we just put a battery in it. It started fine.” Ten minutes passed. Dad got up and put his coat on. “I think I’ll go out and see if I can start that truck.”

My mother gave me a knowing look, as if to say, now you know what I’m going through. I humored him. We started the engine, and I opened the hood so he could see the new battery. “That battery looks brand new,” he said. “Did I write a check for it?” “Yes, you wrote the check,” I said. “It was for one-hundred-seventy dollars.”

He shut the hood of the truck. “You know more than I do.”
We went to the house, but he stopped by the door. “Now,” he asked, “is that the old battery, or the new one, in my truck?” “The new one, dad.” He went into the living room and sat in his favorite chair. In five minutes he was asleep. I thought about what had happened. I thought about him saying I knew more than he knew. It was a first. I never knew what my father knew. He had built houses and knew about framing, roofing, wiring, and plumbing. He’d poured concrete, overhauled engines, felled trees, and done body and fender work. Where had that knowledge gone? Was it still in his mind but he couldn’t tap into it, or was it lost forever? A week ago I visited my parents by myself. Much had changed for me since I’d last seen them. They had sold their house and moved into an assisted living complex, which also had a separate unit for Alzheimer’s patients. I had gone through a divorce after nearly twenty years of marriage.

My parents greeted me as I came into their room. Mom looked older to me. She had stopped dying her hair, and it was completely white. My father looked about the same, but he had lost weight. Mom told him who I was, and he said, “I thought you looked familiar.”

I had arrived in time for dinner, so we went to the facility’s dining room. Three times during dinner dad asked mom if she had brought money to pay for the meal. Each time she patiently explained they didn’t have to pay, but the explanation didn’t get through to him. That night I awoke to the sound of my mother and father talking in their bedroom. She told him it was two in the morning, and that he needed to go to sleep. “But I don’t know where I am!” he said. She explained to him that they were in their room, and that everything was all right, but it didn’t relax him. “But who am I?” he asked. She explained who he was and what town they were living in, and he was quiet for a few minutes. He got up to pee, and it seemed to take forever. I fell asleep to the sound of him wiping up the floor where he had missed the toilet.

At breakfast my mother put dad’s Alzheimer’s pills, a glass of orange juice, and a bowl of cereal, in front of him. “What do I do with these?” he asked her. “Take your pills for Saturday,” she said, “swallow the pills with the orange juice, and eat your cereal.” “What are these pills for?” he asked. “They’re for your memory, dear.” “Where’d we get them?” “The doctor gave them to us.”
“Does he take them?” “No.” “Then how does he know they work? “He just does.”

Dad swallowed the pills and poked his spoon at the cereal. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this stuff,” he said. “You’re supposed to eat it,” she said, “it’s cereal.” After breakfast, mom asked me to help her shower dad. We went into the bathroom and she told him to undress. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t take a shower with his pajamas on, and she had to ask him repeatedly before he removed his clothing. “Wet your hair,” she said to him when he was in the shower. “How do I do that?” he asked. “Get under the shower. Now get some shampoo and put it on your hair.”

When he got out my mother left the bathroom; it was clear she was burnt out. As she left she asked me to lotion and dress him.
His skin was terribly dry and red. I explained to him that I had to put lotion on and asked if that would be okay. “I suppose so,” he said, “I’m just tired of all this shit.”
“Of what, dad?”
“Of people telling me to do things I don’t want to do.”
“I’m sorry, dad,” I said, as I rubbed the lotion in.

I drove my parents to the farm where we all once lived. I asked dad if he remembered anything, and he said none of it looked familiar. When we visited the family that had purchased his old house, it was clear that he didn’t know who they were. That evening, when I arrived home, I drove to my old house to see my son. It’s always odd to be a stranger there, to have to ring the doorbell. I thought of my dad saying he didn’t know who he was or where he lived, because it feels like that. My son answered the door and let me in. It was all so familiar as we hugged each other by the piano, whose top was covered with family photos, as if nothing had changed. My ex-wife was in the kitchen baking cookies; the little family dog was bouncing around my feet, as if I’d been
away just a short time. I held my son a little longer than usual. “I love you,” I said. “And I love you too, dad,” he replied. “I’ll always love you no matter what.”

I hope I never forget that.