I Love My Dad, I Hate Alzheimer’s Disease

I hate Alzheimer’s Disease in a way that I teach my kids never to hate anything. My hatred simmers somewhere deep, in a reservoir that, I hope, doesn’t exist for anyone else. It’s a dark place where I attempt not to spend much mental time passing through.

That is, until a visit from my dad looms.

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On most days, my dad’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis would never cross my mind. After all, I’ve moved 1,300 miles away from home and, from my distant view, Dad’s doing just fine. For the most part, my cauldron of hate for his Alzheimer’s bubbles gently on the back burner.

But, then, when Papa Denny (as my kids call him) comes to visit, my suppressed hate reservoir resurfaces.

I hate that there is no rhyme or reason to why my dad’s been inflicted.

I hate that the innumerable, experimental pills he pops each day have never proven to do a thing – except trigger lethargy and, at best, delay an inevitable result.

I hate that my dad can remember odd, old facts – like caddying for Bruce Crampton as a teenager in suburban Chicago – but cannot recall where the bathroom is in my house.

I hate Alzheimer’s because it is cruel.

I hate Alzheimer’s because it is non-discriminant.

I hate Alzheimer’s because I can’t correct its relentless curse and help my dad get well.

Rest assured, though, not everything is gloom and doom when Dad comes to town. In some ways his diagnosis compels me to make an effort to be more present during the times we are together.

During these visits, I make time to see if he remembers aspects of my childhood. He politely laughs and plays along.

I ask for parenting advice and I needle Dad about enjoying the ignorant bliss that comes with not remembering the day before. My dad is a good sport about his diagnosis, I think.

I love when my dad visits – which makes me hate Alzheimer’s even more.

I hate dropping him at the airport at 5 am and wondering how he’ll be the next time we see each other.

I hate that I wasted too many years “checking the box” at holidays after he and my mother divorced.

I hate hugging my step-mom and detecting that she holds the same disdain for the disease that I do.

I hate that my kids will ask me how Papa Denny is doing and I’ll immediately (and defensively) reassure them that nothing has changed – that he is doing just fine. I dread that explanation eventually having to change.

I hate that a piece of me selfishly wonders if I’ll suffer the same fate – and how that might impact my kids, wife and extended family.

But, I teach my kids not to hate. And, I expect them to oblige.

In fact, I’m counting on my kids to help me return my festering, hate reservoir back to lukewarm. After all, kids are great at living in the moment. They don’t carry over yesterday’s garbage and certainly don’t think about tomorrow’s trash.

My kids love when Papa Denny visits. So do I. I’m remembering that collective love as I type right now.

The love of a son who recalls front yard two-hand touch football.

The love of a son who still laughs at the embarrassment of his dad picking a group of friends up in the family jalopy.

The love of a fellow parent who hopes his kids never have to worry.

Yeah, I love my dad.

But, damn, I hate Alzheimer’s Disease.