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WORD FOR THE DAY "dementia" (n.) Psychiatry. Severe impairment or loss of intellectual capacity and personality integration due to the loss of or damage to neurons in the brain. (dictionary.com) Example sentence: "Alzheimer's disease is a form of dementia." September is Alzheimer's Action Month, and today is Alzheimer's Action Day. Wear purple to show your support, and visit www.alz.org/mnnd/.

Cars. Keys. Dementia.

“I’ve got to get my car ready for winter,” says my 84-year-old father, with some agitation. “What’s the oil test at?  Thirty below?”
      I wonder if I should play along at this point or if I should begin the inevitable argument about a certain elderly man who’s not allowed to drive anymore.  I choose the latter; Dad has to be reminded, again.  Maybe, one day, the information will move into his long-term memory.
      “Dad, I’ve had the car into the garage, and everything’s fine,” I begin, but Dad interrupts.
      “I’ve gotta have my car.   I’ve got things to do.  I’ve got to get on the road.”
      Since I need to get some idea of where Dad’s mind is today, I ask him about why he needs to get on the road.
      “You know why,” he says with some disgust, no doubt wondering how I could have been so silly to have forgotten.  “I’m in business.  I can’t sell if I don’t have my car.”
      We’ve been playing a shell game with Dad’s car since a year ago, when we finally moved him to assisted living, 150 miles from his home on Pokegama Lake in Northern Minnesota.  First, it stayed at a garage at my sister’s summer lake home next door.  Then, my brother took it to his apartment in Grand Rapids and parked it in the street.  (He cleaned it of the dog hair, styrofoam leftover boxes from various restaurants, assorted pieces of trash, and piles of used Depends.  –  How and where on earth was Dad able to change his pants while on the road?)  Next, we had it towed to St. Cloud when our brother wasn’t “looking;” (Our brother wasn’t convinced that Dad couldn’t drive anymore, and we were afraid he’d bring it down to the assisted living place for him.)  So, the car ended up in my driveway, on my mother’s insurance and with the title in mom’s name.  When Dad would come to visit my home, we’d drive it over to mom’s apartment lot.
      “Dad, I’m sorry to remind you, but you cannot drive any longer.  I know it’s a disappointment, but . . .”
       “Now, you listen to me,” interrupts my beginning-to-get-agitated Dad.  “I can drive.  I’ve got a license right here from the State of Minnesota that says I can drive until 2010, and that’s what I’m gonna do as soon as I get out of here.”
      He pulls his wallet out of a pocket and stabs it with his finger for emphasis.
      So, this is my cue. I should now expect a litany from Dad about everything that’s bothering him – he needs to go home, who gave me permission to take care of his money (“It’s MY money, My father gave that to me.”) he wants his car, the food at the place isn’t any good, it’s way too cold in the apartment, he’s got to get home for Christmas, he’s got equipment to take care of...
      Dad’s got dementia, with some Alzheimer’s. His untreated high blood pressure over many years caused small “silent” strokes. Clinically, it’s called “multi-infarct dementia.” We didn’t know what was wrong with Dad, but we noticed him changing while he was still in his fifties. Not a pretty sight. Not a great experience for us. In fact, often there was violence. For almost 30 years, the family’s picked up the pieces of all of Dad’s subsequent losses – business, home, land, legacy. Yet, Dad’s never “lost” us. We’ve always been there for him, even when his behaviors pushed us away for our own safety or mental/emotional health.
      Now, he’s aged, and for his health and because of his worsening dementia, we’ve taken away the car, and the keys, and the lake that he loves ...
      “We love you, Dad,” I say, holding my ground. “That’s why you can’t drive.”
      I turn and hurry out of the apartment before my Dad takes a swing at me.