My Father's Yarzheit, 5783

Alzheimer’s disease runs in my father’s family, and any time I have a remotely senior moment, I assume that it’s finally caught up with me.  So far, I’m okay. I could rattle off a long list of horrible memories about this, but I’d like to focus on a few good ones.

Most are familiar with the forgetfulness, disorientation, and anger that is symptomatic of dementia. Less well known is the extreme depression that can devastate the victims of the disease.  Ironically, this can occur during moments of lucidity when the patient realizes how much has been lost.

The first time I witnessed Alzheimer’s up close was with my grandfather Irving. I was already living on my own, about two years out of school.  I went to visit him once or twice a week, but this was nothing compared to Seymour.  With all the problems Seymour had, he still did somersaults to ensure that Irving had everything he needed.

One time I showed up for a visit, and Seymour was standing outside of Irving’s room.  Dad was crestfallen.  He suggested that it might not be a good time for a visit. Irving was so blue and nothing I could say would help.  As usual, Seymour was trying to make things easier for me.

Undeterred, I went into the room, while Seymour stayed outside.  I was ready with my shtick, which I used pretty much every time I saw Irving.  As soon as Grandpa started telling me how worthless he was, I responded by saying what a great start I had been given in life. I had my education, a good job, and excellent prospects.  How could any of this have happened without the help my father had given to me?  And how could my father have done what he did if Irving hadn’t helped him?

I was laying it on a little thick, but it had the benefit of being true. And sure enough, I was able to reach Irving, and he told me how grateful he was to hear this.

Which was nothing compared to the response I got from my father.  “Aron, I want you to quit your job, go back to school, and become a psychologist.”  Not a practical suggestion, but that was the proudest I’d ever seen him.

Years later, Seymour started showing symptoms.  My mother told me that we had to be very understanding.  To which I responded: “He’s my father.  Of course, I understand.  Even if I don’t understand, I understand.”

And it was like Irving all over again.  It was terrible for Seymour, but far worse for my mother. I was relatively local, and able to help.  This meant a lot of driving, frequently to doctor’s appointments or emergency rooms.

One time, I showed up to his hospital room.  He looked at me and said: “Aron, I’m such a louse”.  To which I responded without hesitation: “You are the greatest man on earth.”

Now, I said this with such force that the paint started peeling off the walls.  I hesitate to tell this story now lest the ceiling fall in.  Happily, he turned to my mother and said: “Did you hear that, Betty?”

Seymour’s decline continued, and ultimately, he barely opened his eyes. And of course, my mother stayed with him 24 hours a day.  I imagined that if he could have one more moment of lucidity, he would scream at me: “Can’t you see what this is doing to your mother?  How hard could it be to get rid of an old man.”  Of course, he never had that moment.

The last time I saw my father alive, I had my son Alan with me.  He was about 9 years old and was quite aware of what was going on.  Seymour opened his eyes for just a few seconds, and Alan jumped up right in front of him.  As my mother later confirmed, that was the last time Seymour ever smiled.

Shabbat Shalom.