What is left behind

One morning last week I called my father, a retired political scientist in the earlier stages of Alzheimers. He never remembers that I have called after the fact, but in the moment he is always happy to talk, or rather these days listen more than not.

In my ramblings about my life so far away in California, I mentioned that I had made inquiries about singing on a concert series at the Richard Nixon Library and Memorial. My father, who is reported to have once danced a gig in front of the television set at the news of Nixon's resignation, had forgotten that Nixon had died. When I reminded him that he passed away during the Clinton Presidency, he jovially said that he guessed he hadn't heard much from him in a while.

There is always a lot of talk in my extended family about Alzheimers, as my father is the fourth in the family to manifest these same symptoms. Many of my relatives have said that the losses in the earlier stages of Alzheimers often leave some fundamental essence of that person exposed. My great-aunt Mildred saw beauty in everything, and would tell you about it repeatedly since she could forget that she had already called your attention to the same thing 10 minutes before. My grandfather clung passionately to trying to remember certain facts, first the date of his wife's death and then the fact that she had died. Much later, he expressed a wish to find another woman, a wish that suggested there had been someone else in his heart as well.

Growing up, I always felt that my father's picture should be next to the word "inhibited" in the dictionary. We never talked about feelings, only politics or family gossip. The only passion he showed was for politics, but even that was tempered by his professor's mindset that compelled him to lecture more than converse or listen. As we were talking about the Nixon library last week, some thought came to his head and he started a sentence as we once had talked only to have the idea escape him after two or three words. I did my best to fill in the gaps. Although he no longer grasps the details in the issues of politics, he still enjoys the sport and his joy is evident in his laughter when hearing me talk about the latest antics of John Boehner or some recent fallen Republican.

In his inability to express his thoughts or even form them fully, he is able to share only his 'love of the game.' He also says 'I love you' to me more now than ever before. Although still the consummate partisan, he no longer seems so bothered that his wife is a Republican. (Long before he fell in love with this strong woman, I was raised to believe that Republicans were practically another species.) I hope that he is able to more freely share his love with her as well, especially as she is the one who's daily acts are a testament of love for him.