You want to trust what your brain tells you. But my father is delusional. That’s what his doctor said.
He has reached his 90th birthday but not with everything intact. I look at a photo of him and my mother, taken three years ago when my daughter had her first communion. And I remember that as a time when he was still himself. He looks a long way away in that picture.
Now he doesn’t recognize my mother most of the time. I didn’t know this until about a month ago when he called me at home.
“Is mom there?” he asked me. I told him she wasn’t and asked why he wondered. Wasn’t she at home in their condo?
“I haven’t seen her for several days,” he said. She was in the next room. I know because I called a few minutes later and she picked up the phone.
A long time ago he joked that if he became senile one day, “Just give me a sandbox to play in.” It would be easy if we could just humor him. Sure dad. There are three other women who say they’re my mom. That’s okay. Sure dad. You got on a plane this morning and ended up in a strange place even though it looks just like your bedroom. But don’t worry.
It isn’t an old man re-entering the sweet innocence of childhood. It’s a former adult insisting what he thinks is true. He argues about it and my mother is getting tired of the arguments. I’m getting tired of the arguments.
He doesn’t have far to go in this life and I want him to be in a peaceful place while it lasts. Jim Fudge isn’t himself anymore. And I don’t know what to do about it.
Update Feb. 2016: This story has had a happy ending. Some trial and error in the use of medication has made my dad better. He recognizes my mom now, and seems to be his old self; his old old self at least. Though when you talk about happy endings you’ve got to remember Yogi Berra said it ain’t over ’til it’s over. That’s true of baseball games and of life.
CUL-DE-SAC 