Finding an Escape Route

I stop in the middle of things sometimes now. I quietly thank God for letting me be here. Times like when the kids and I are laughing hysterically together. Or when we are snuggled up together. Even when we are working on the house together. He wasn’t required to give me a second chance. I’d made a choice to throw away His precious gift. And it is that thought that makes me grateful to have moments of laughter, love or comfort.

People in general cannot understand the thoughts of a person who wants to take their on life. I think of it being similar to the amnesia mother’s experience of the pains of labor. We never completely forget the experience, but we cannot describe it to another person. Truly when I am in a good place mentally, I can’t make the thoughts that took me to that place make sense. But I’ve always explained it like being on loose dirt that is giving way and falling into a deep, dark hole. In the beginning no one can identify that it is happening. Some people slip quietly into the darkness where many of us are so comfortable. Some of us realize too late and try crawling out with no avail. I have been one of the people outside of the hole, watching a friend as the walls collapsed in on her. I can even remember trying to find that “reason” for her decision.

On that rainy night, it was not one reason, but the multitude that helped me fulfill my self abusive thoughts. Yes, it was the day I was supposed to be celebrating my 15th wedding anniversary. And it is true that David and I met at the park in the rain and he once again pronounced his disgust in the thought of being with me. I did tell him I could not be around him anymore. And I can’t. But it wasn’t this interaction that sealed the fate of my actions.

It also wasn’t the message on facebook I received from a good friend from my job of 12 years I had recently quit. Oh, it hurt to see her talk of things we had discussed while at work together, to continue on with life as I knew it. But it was not the pain of remembering those times that made me decide to swallow the bottle of pills.

It wasn’t Sierra’s decision to live with David, either. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to understand what she saw that made her feel our relationship was getting worse. Perhaps it was the desperation I felt if she was not happy or the conflict i felt in setting boundaries for her. Maybe it was just giving away the dog the day before her birthday. But while it hurt and made me question my mothering, I will always always always choose for my children to be happy and healthy above myself.

And so it wasn’t even Charlie the kitten dying or the events of the days around his death that ended in my quitting my only adult job. Watching my kids emotionally hurt made an emptiness in my chest, a helplessness. Teaching them how to let go was empowering while exhausting. And I would give up every job except being a mother to have those moments with those precious souls.

It was not one thing or everything. It could honestly be the chemicals in my head. It could be that the events mixed with the chemical imbalance that lead me to that bottle. But as I took the first handful, I didn’t think of anything until they were washed down. A stark realization hit me that this was permanent. And a calmness enveloped me. All the hurting, fighting, being would end. I finished consuming the remainder pills. I didn’t count them, but knew there were enough there to accomplish my goal.

My thoughts were of the kids. I felt I was helping them. I was extracting a demon from their lives. I wanted their life paths to quit being so cumbersome. And I felt I was a burden, that I caused the issues in their lives. I knew my death would hurt, but I felt it would be temporary while me living would always effect them negatively because I felt hopeless, helpless, unnecessary. I thought only finding my human capsule, my body, would scar them. And so I felt comfortable knowing they were with their dad. David was and is a good dad. Because of everything we have been through with dad, I worried about my belongings. The only possession I felt worthy of mentioning was the pearls I was given as a wedding gift. I scribbled a note quickly leaving them to Sierra and to divide the rest of my belongings amongst all the kids.

I tried to imagine the best scenario of how to notify people of what I had done. I didn’t want the kids to come home and find it. I didn’t want to scar the babysitter. I called her to make sure she was going to David’s house in the morning. And finally I realized my sister, Nancy could shoulder this job. I waited just a few minutes until I could feel the sleepiness approaching. I called her to ask if she would come over. The special soul she is immediately agreed. It was late evening. She asked what was going on. I tried to avoid telling her, hoping that the time it took her to get to my house would be long enough for it to be permanent. But as she asked again why and the drugs were working enough that I knew I needed to end the conversation. I told her the truth. It is the last thing I remember of the evening.

She has told me she called 911 immediately as her daughter, Mariah, drove 90 miles an hour to cross the 45 miles between our houses. My mom came with them. Apparently the sheriff’s department called her back informing her no one was answering my door. She tried to explain again that I couldn’t answer it. They found a window to crawl in. Honestly when I came home there was no evidence of them being there except one of their paper blankets on my rocking chair. Nancy arrived as they were loading me into the ambulance. She wanted to ride with me. Not only is she my sister, but she’s an ICU nurse. But the sheriff had to give possession of my property to someone. When that was complete, the three of them headed to the ER. I have no recollection of any thing until the next day around 5 pm. I remember waking up with my chest hurting like someone had punched me really hard. I wondered if they had to perform CPR. I remember feeling sad that it hadn’t worked. And scared because I didn’t know where I was or what would happen next.

Nancy came to see me. They admitted me for almost a week for my mind, not my body. I interacted with people who are in much worse circumstances than me. I started to feel confident I could survive. But I still didn’t know if I wanted to. I started talking to the kids every day while I was in there. I felt guilty, not only for my actions but because I had to cancel my part of the trip I was supposed to go on to Florida with them and their dad. But honestly what made me realize what I was doing was Mia Harper Kent. Mariah’s daughter was only 3 months old at the time. Nancy had me move in to her house and Mariah and Mia live there also. As I tried to help out to repay them for literally saving my life, I bonded with this baby. And I realized my passion is to be a mom. I am a nurse that specialized in women’s health. I am a woman that has loved and lost. I am a daughter that tries constantly. But the title I am most proud of is Mother. I almost gave that away. What I thought was the best thing for my kids was in fact the worst.

I have had a few bad days since the hospital. David can ignite my fight or flight response instantly. Money is tight. I am struggling to be a part of Sierra’s life. Dad continues to slip away. But I am a mom. My actions influence their decisions on how to act. Not only do I never want my babies to feel they are a burden, but I want them to flourish, become whatever they want, and be happy. And I want to be here to see it and know I was a part of making it happen.

So I  enjoy the small moments more. Being there for a doctor’s appointment. Watching a movie together and laughing or crying. Learning to manage a house alone. It’s so worth it. And if that dirt starts to loosen again, remind me of this.

The Way We Were….Really

There are some thoughts I can’t keep inside my head. I literally feel like I will burst if I don’t tell someone. I have a history of telling too many people too many things. The challenge is to find a balance between these two states.

Tonight I took Truman to his first cub scout meeting. He was nervous and being pessimistic. I get frustrated when my kids give up without trying. I occasionally realize they do this because they are living by my example. We were lost and arrive at the meeting late. Truman’s attitude was slowly changing after we talked about Ethan’s first cub scout meeting. I can understand where he is coming from: if Ethan can survive then surely he, as the younger brother, can also. As the leader was teaching the cub scout laws and oath, I reflected on when Ethan was memorizing these exact pillars of the club. My heart dropped out of my chest into my stomach. The memories were of me telling David what Ethan and I had time to work on and what I needed David to accomplish while I was unavailable.

I realized in that memory, as the waterfall of similar shots from our past began to crash in my head, that David and I lived seperately for a long time before we moved into seperate houses. In fact, many memories, dare I say most, of the time we were married is of us being apart. It started out as me attending college and working part time as he worked to support us. Then quickly it became me working weekend nights and him traveling for a job that “fell into our laps.” He was also taking classes to finish his degree. While this arrangement was great for the kids because they were barely ever at a babysitter’s, we had to work to find time to be together. It ate away at our young relationship like a cancer.

The climax was our first trip to Hawaii. We actually had time to relax together. I can remember feeling a little like being on a first date when we dressed up to go to the luau. We decided to buy our ‘big’ house on that trip. We were in the middle of Ethan’s rhythmic fevers of over 104 for months. But it was us against the world.  The next memory I have of us making time to be together is my 30th birthday. His brother had a party bus that we took out with friends. I was sick earlier in the day–literally throwing up. But I forced myself to get up and enjoy it and I did. He asked me for a divorce when I was almost 33. I have trouble extracting any memories from that time that we were together without stress, sadness and silence.

So many day to day memories are of me alone with the kids or me away from Dave and the kids thinking about them. I realized that my life has not changed much since then except I’m not supposed to love David anymore. So many things have happened–hurtful words and actions, mistrust, anger and sadness–that to think we could or should be together is not realistic and bordering on delusional. We chose a lifestyle. We unknowingly agreed to live seperately but still be connected by the love of and for our children. I am confident there are people in our lives that saw it coming. But it took my six year old standing like a soldier in that church with his two fingers raised, trying to repeat those vows, for me to realize it. Now I know. Now I will make sure those four souls know their parents loved each other a one point and that we love(d) them always. We have become strangers to each other, but have never lost the passion of being their parents. It’s not the fairy tale ending. But it’s the ending we chose.

A new life

Dad is still alive. It’s been six moths since we chose to stop all his meds. The infamous “they” gave him six months to a year to survive. His body remains as strong as it can be while his mind melts away.

A friend told me today that I shouldn’t live like I’m the one dying. It will be one of those sayings I will turn to when questioning whether I’m living my life showing the world my values. Unfortunately, I have lived my life as if I were dying. And I’ve longed for it. God has given me so many blessings in my life: my kids, my family, my friends and even my ex-husband and father. I have seen that there are people in this world that love me, like me, want me and need me. For them, I am grateful.

Everyone has a story. It has a beginning, middle and end. There are boring parts and suspenseful moments. Some of us share this, and some couldn’t articulate it if they wanted others to know.

I am the youngest daughter of two people that fell in love almost instantly. He would tell me of the moment he saw her on those stairs when he knew he’d be with her forever. I have two older sisters who happened to fall in love with brothers. I have loved few in my life, but they were passionate loves. I have failed many and made the day of more. I have been hurt and hurt others. I am human.

I have been told I haven’t processed the next story I’m going to tell you. It is unsettling. There is no good guy or bad guy, just a bad situation where so many are hurt and lost. Please know that this is a real story told from my point of view. It is from my memories. But to the best of my knowledge this is true.

I have mentioned that the psychological exam showed a strong liklihood for my father’s dementia to be of the Lewy Body variety. It is the difference of what part of the brain is effected and what is causing the nerves to tangle up and die. Lew Bodies is associated with Parkinson’s. It attacks the frontal lobe, which controls our emotions and sexual drive.

My father is not a perfect man, though in my eyes he is closer than many men I’ve met. He was present in my childhood and many of my memories are of him taking time to show me his love.

But the fall of 2008 was a difficult one for my family. David had filed for divorce and I had pulled away from helping my parents. My parents had moved into my sister’s house during the week and living in their home near me on the weekends. Then my mom contracted pneumonia. She was hopsitalized for almost 7 days. David had the kids over the weekend she was a patient. Trying to be as helpful as I could, I volunteered to take dad to their house and give my sister respite. I was hoping to not only have some quality time with him, but also provide him comfort during a very stressful time.

We went fishing for the last time that day. Just him and me. I had to set his line for him, something he always did for me because I hated poking the worms. We sat there together on a perfect morning, the sun shining to our backs. We caught a few, dad needing help to see his bobber move. We went out to eat, though I couldn’t tell you where. He laid down for a nap. We visited mom.

Then we returned to his house. I could tell he was exhausted. I went through the routine we established while he lived with me reciting his pills, though I had to name them now instead of him. I made sure he went to bed and started watching one of my favorite movies, “The Pianist.”  He came in at some point and asked if I was sleeping in the living room in a recliner. I wanted to make sure he slept, and so I reasoned if I laid next to him he would rest. Afterall he was used to having his wife lay next to him. When he grabbed me to hold me close to him I felt uncomfortable, but understood he wanted to know he wasn’t alone. I began dozing, but was awoke to my breasts being touched. I took his hand and moved it away, saying his name to bring him back to reality. I turned over. But soon I woke up to being touched again. I tried to redirect him several more times.

I got up and went to sleep in the living room. He came in after a time. He asked if I was mad. I said no. He asked if I was coming back to bed. My counselor told me this is where I truly was in error. I went back to my parents’ room. I didn’t sleep, but rather thought of how if I never ate again I would be unattractive. I concentrated on not throwing up. I guarded the most important parts of my body from being touched. And I prayed for morning.

I don’t know if he remembers doing that. I know I have difficulty with hugging him or even letting him kiss my cheek for more than a peck. I know many will find it hard to believe that I can love him so much despite what he did. But I know it was not my father that touched me. It was that ugly disease that has stripped my family of everything. My new counselor has told me I need to process this and realize it was not my fault. Even with the disease my father was an authority figure that I trusted to protect me. This information just makes me hate the disease more. There is no good guy or bad guy. Just a daughter that worshipped her daddy and a daddy that was losing his mind from a disease he didn’t ask for.

Every day there is a new Jill. Every day I choose to be present. And I hope it’s true the past will quit haunting me.

The Truth

On June 8, 2010, I swallowed over 20 Xanax. I was sure that not being alive was the solution to so many problems in my life. In reflection, it was a decision made from a very dark place in my mind that is wired wrong. While I am fixing the wiring with medication and therapy, I must still battle the demons that helped me land in the pit. I’d like to thank everyone that is supporting me along this journey. And to those that can’t, won’t. . . . . I’ll leave you to your own thoughts and demons.

Life and Death Challenges

Sorry I have not posted in so long. My computer caught a nasty virus and I had to replace it. Meanwhile, I started a new job and quit my job of 13 years. My oldest daughter turned 16, helped to buy a ’96 Mustang as her first car and moved in with her dad “to improve our relationship.” My dad went to the psych unit again for almost three weeks and came out in a pleasant fog where he no longer realizes what he is losing. My children finished their school year. We gave our dog, Bambi, to a family that had more time to give her the attention she needs. Our kitten, Charlie, died at six months old from his congenital liver disease.

I’ve realized so many things. I am not a strong person. I am tredding water to survive. My checking account is a mess, as is my house. I feel other people’s emotions so strongly it drains me. I don’t get refueled often, if ever. Yet I push some opportunities away because I am scared of being hurt. Yet some things I cling to and nurture with the gentle touch Mother Nature gives as she spreads dew on the spring flowers.

I am an empty vessel. I don’t like to ask to be refilled for fear that I will be denied. Even God.

My dad is also an empty vessel. He still knows enough to keep his body alive. He has a basic memory of his family, when we visit or remind him. But his eyes are empty and sad and scared and lonely. What he is missing can’t be refilled. And we are not allowed to give him things that brought him joy in the past. They don’t like for us to take him out of the nursing home “because it confuses him.” Sometimes I imagine breaking him out in a “Thelma and Louise” way and we drive off where no one has to live the sad days left. We just drive off in the sunset and he disappears into the wilderness that has been his hobby for so long.

Living life can drain you. Wondering if you’ve made the right decisions from shampoo to changing  jobs, the stress builds daily. And for some dying is just as draining. Not the quick blessing of a car accident or cancer found too late.

Lewy Bodies vs. Alzheimer’s

When a person is diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer’s they are commonly sent for a neuropsychology consult. This consists of eight hours of testing in which the person answers questions as easy as Where are you? and What is your name? to Count backwards from 100 by 7 as far as you can. These are common in the mini-mental exam. So the test also asks about if the person is sad sometimes, if there was a toaster in the room and bread popped out of it what would you do, and show me how to hammer a nail.

It is exhausting. In the end it is the best diagnostic tool available until death to differentiate between the different kinds of dementia. Most people don’t realize there are several forms of memory loss. It comes from what part of the brain is being lost by the atrophy, or shrinking. It can be caused by a shower of clots from a stroke, or from the same “bodies” that cause the tremors and muscle weakness in Parkinson’s disease, or it can be from clumping of part of nerve sheath or protective coating as it is being stripped off.

My dad probably has Lewy bodies dementia, but could possibly have Alzheimer’s also. He is donating his brain upon death so that we will have a definite answer. The Lewy Bodies would explain the hallucinations. It would explain the fast progression and the horrible personality changes.

I believe in God. I don’t believe my God would make a disease like this. He wouldn’t want someone to be embarrassed like this. He wouldn’t want families to hurt like this.

absence with love

I couldn’t write while I watched it happening. I know it has been so long, but he has been so desecretate by the disease that I couldn’t write it without getting nauseous. Part of me prayed it was taking the last of his days on earth from him. Part of me was wanting to understand but most of me was wanting it to end for him to be comfortable, for me to have something outside of the chaos, for my family–the kids, my sisters, brother-in-laws and mother– to begin living a life without the shadow of this demon lurking over our shoulder.

He slowly lost touch with reality again. He hit his room mate and the hospice nurse became a one-on-one for several days. I went up there to be with her when I wasn’t working. He met me by tellimg that someone told him he was dying and he was scared. His eyes were wide like a child full of fear from a nightmare. We walked around the nursing home. He so wanted me to take him away from there, but the staff believed that taking him out intensified his anger and confusion. We were trying out the theory by keeping him at the nursing home. Finally we had to medicate him with Ativan. Fifteen minutes later the medication tech brought him a pain pill and we woke him up for it. Twenty minutes later the nurse woke him up for his Ativan/Haldol/Benadryl lotion. He never went back to sleep.

Instead he stayed awake and barely ate lunch, paced the halls, called me and the hospice nurse as if we were horses, spit ice cream at me, tried to pick open the corners of the hall and the windows, tried to urinate in the sink and corners and took a swing at a chaplin. When he went into the bathroom to pee on the floor and came out to take a swing at me and/or the mean man in the mirror, I knew he needed something more. But he had exhausted himself. He curled up in the fetal position and slept until dinner.

Two days later mom agreed to place him inpatient in a senior psychiatric unit. It is an hour away from me. Neither of my sisters visited him for the first 5 days because my mom chose to treat a urinary tract infection that was diagnosed when he was admitted. I don’t have an opinion. I know my dad is on a one way path. It leads to death. I know the day I spent with him was mean and I can’t imagine God would want any of His people to live that way. I want him to be comfortable, without fear, without anger. This is how I want him to be. I don’t know if that means using antibiotics or narcotics or antipsychotics.

He continues there today. He has had one good day. He ate an ice cream cone for me and recognized Nancy, my sister, as soon as she arrived. But other than that he believes he is back in the Vietnam War dodging bombs and gunfire, seeing dead bodies. He sits in mid-air. He accidently broke his room mate’s finger.

Tomorrow is Peyton’s birthday. He doesn’t know who that is, but we will visit him and bring cake and ice cream. Sometimes I wonder if he is my addiction. I love him and want to make him happy, even though he doesn’t really know who I am anymore. Yet, I’m still his baby. Really– that’s what he calls me.

Monday was a Bad Day

Yesterday was a bad day for dad. When I walked onto the locked unit three of the personnel said they were glad to see me because they were about to call my mom. Dad had just pulled another resident’s hair. I found him sitting in one of the rocking chairs in the tv room. My hands were full of the donut and cappuchino I’d brought with me for him and a tea for myself. I was thankful I had thought ahead of reinforcements. I was going to need them today.

“Hi, daddy. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you pull that women’s hair?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s go for a ride.” He shuffled with me to his room so I could put his jacket on. I put the donut in his hand. I was able to grab the wrapping out of the way before he ate a bite.

“MMM! That’s good.”

“Yes. I brought it just for you.” His eyebrows raise. I grab his hand and we shuffle slowly off the unit and to my car. On our way out his CNA stops me to tell me he refused to eat his breakfast and that today was his shower day. I told her I was taking him on a ride to try to calm him down and we would try a shower later. The providers try but dad exhausts me in the few hours I am with him and I only deal with him. I can’t imagine trying to manage a 25 person ward with seven or eight people. It is thankless work.

Durng the car ride, he didn’t make much sense. The only things I could understand was something that meant he was asking if David was leaving me alone. I told him yes. And the other thing was he was with mom and me over the weekend when mom bought Ethan his birthday gifts of two video games. He asked if “the boys” got their games and liked them. I said yes. But he couldn’t follow my answer to his question either time. I prepared him on the way back that we would take a shower before lunch.

It didn’t occur to me until Tammy, the director of the Alzheimer’s unit dad lives on, said it to me that day, but I knew that eventually the disease makes the person fearful of water. So when my father who rarely shed a curse word except when hurting himself was swearing at me trying to avoid getting into the water, it was not me he was upset with. Of course it was me he was upset with when I put his adult diaper on wrong.

He was still anxious after this. He wanted to go off the unit again.

“C’mon now. C’mon. Let’s go. Let’s go get a steak. C’mon. C’mon. Where’d the girl go?” He’s dragging me up and down the hall of the unit because I’m telling him no, I’m not taking him out. No, I don’t have money for a steak. Finally, I take him out on the patio. I sit us in the sun. He tries to get up and go.

“Dad, we don’t have anywhere to be. Lunch isn’t for 10 more minutes. Remember, you’re retired.”

“Yeah, I’m retired. And I got a nice shower.”

“Yes, you did.”

Mom called. While I was talking to her, he dozed off. When he woke up a few minutes later we went in so he could eat 10 bites of fish, 5 bites of lasagna and two cups of ice cream before I went and laid him down for a nap. When he kissed me goodbye he said goodbye to “the boys.” Mom believes he thought my kids were with me. I don’t know, maybe someone was in the room he could see that I couldn’t.

I love him. I can put him to bed and drive away. He must live in that hell 24 hours a day, every day. If you read this, and it moves you, please pray for his peace. No one deserves to live that hell.

Footprints in the Sand

I believe in God, The Father, Maker of Heaven and Earth.

I believe in Jesus Christ, the only Son of God.

I believe in the Holy Ghost.

I believe in the resurrection of the body and life everlasting and the forgiveness of sins.

But there are many days in the last two years I have felt very alone. Tragedy forms a bond with others that have experienced similar paths. Support groups are an example of how people relate and heal from gathering because of a common idiosyncracies. Indeed I have found myself talking to many people who probably I would not have before except now we have this brand in common: we have a marriage in our past that failed. And in the beginning I went with my mom to a support group for caregivers of people with Alzheimer’s. But it took place on Tuesday evenings and the kids need me in the evenings. Asking for that time away seemed greedy since I was already taking so much away by taking dad to doctor’s appointments and classes, we would eat at their house some evenings and go over on the weekends when I wasn’t working. I would get calls after I dropped him off and usually several more before bedtime.

I have co-workers with parents that are failing. One co-worker lost her father to Alzheimer’s this fall. We would talk occasionally and trade stories of silly behavior or exhaustion. It does help to tell people; that is why I write. I have another co-worker that is caring for her parents that are both losing their memories at different levels after taking care of her father-in-law for years. We all talk about our stories, but the stories are different. How can anyone else understand how it feels to be caring for both parents as they forget every day things? And how can anyone else understand how it feels to watch your dad disappear so young while you are asked to rebuild your life?

In the divorce agreement neither of us can move from Blue Springs, Mo, and keep joint custody. So until Truman graduates from high school, I will live here. I have aunts and uncles that live in Independence, Mo, but my sisters and mom live north in Parkville 45 minutes away. I chose to stop talking to the cousin that introduced me to David when I found out she knew I was getting divorced before I did. Most of my friends that live near me were David’s friends.

When I have something heavy to carry or need someone to watch the kids, I don’t have anyone except David. This has made it difficult to finish the moving process. It has made 12 hour shifts difficult. I had to call my mom at 11 o’clock last night because I was called to come into work and I already knew he was unavailable. I had called to see if he could go to my house because I had to stay after work and the kids hadn’t ate yet but he was already out with friends.

When I was first so crushed by David’s announcement, my good friend told me to remember the story of “The Footprints in the Sand.” I had told her once how it brought me comfort. She would often text me during difficult days to feel God holding me.

Today, I don’t feel that Hand holding me. I am often angry about the disease or others things, and I question Him. I don’t feel I deserve His love. I will ask Him to help my patients, my friends and family. But I don’t feel I deserve to ask Him to help me.

There is only one set of footprints in the sand right now. I don’t have family that can help me: my mom is overwhelmed by her own grief, Beth is angry with me and Nancy has a new granddaughter and a full plate of her own. Besides they live too far away. I am too much for David to bear. He is moving on. I have lost the right to ask for God’s help, and besides He can’t carry furniture.

Purgatory

Have you ever cried so hard you felt like the pit of your stomach may come out? It hurts so bad you think the air in your lungs will disappear and you will die? I have cried this cry just a few times in my life. Today was one of the times.

Two years ago I sat in a purgatory of sorts wondering what the letter my husband wrote would do to my life. Would it merely discuss his feelings about my caring for my parents and pressuring him to let them move in with us? Or would it be about our relationship that seemed to continue to suffer despite my intentions to take better care of it. Yet it always seemed every time I went to give our relationship attention, dad’s condition worsened. Two years ago this week my biggest fears were 1) losing my marriage and 2) the day my dad would not recognize me.

We all know I lost my marriage that year. It is not David’s fault nor mine: it is ours. But those tears that stole the air from my lungs were cried during that time as I felt my reality unraveling, MY lifepath changing as I mourned for my children’s, my father’s, my entire family’s.

Just two months before David announced he couldn’t live with me anymore, I had broken my elbow. A minor inconvenience, it slowed us down as dad still participated in Alzhiemer’s classes and Truman had preschool at the time. I remember dad turning to me one day as we were driving and saying, “Don’t go having another baby or having a heart attack on me. You really are a life saver. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The morning after David told me his decision, I was in dad’s living room when I sent my sister a text messagewith tears in my eyes. It told her I would only be able to take care of dad one day a week from that day forward as David had told me he wanted to leave me. If I was to be a single mom I would be too busy to be of much help and if my marriage was to be saved I would need the time to save it. Her response read, “April fool’s?”

In my grief and devastation I had forgotten what day it was. I replied back,”How I wish it was.”

But, it was my reality and I survived it. Today I still grieve those times but the ache isn’t as consuming. Instead I am living my second worse fear.

When my father was diagnosed we were told he had 5 to 7 years to live. We knew what kind of life he would be living in the end and prayed that it would be shorter. I could handle a broken body but not his broken mind.

It is five years later. Yesterday I sat with him at a table. There were paints and paper in front of him but he couldn’t understand that. He was rambling to me in nonsense words for ten minutes as he sipped the cappuccino I brought him to give him empty calories. He looked at me and said, “I wish one of the girls could visit but I know they’re busy.”

My eyes stung. When I came into the room, as I always do, I kissed him and told him I was Jill Marie, his baby girl. But he no longer recognized me. I rushed to tell him once again that I was his baby girl, his youngest daughter, his Jill Marie. His eyes also turned red around the edges as they filled with glassy tears. “Jill? You’re Jill Marie?”

“Yes, daddy, I’m your Jill Marie. It’s ok.”

To save myself from crying uncontrollably in front of him a wave of anger washed over me. This disease is inhumane to everyone it touches. It breaks souls and spirits. Anger was an emotion I could control better while I tried to get dad to paint, then talk to a psychiatrist, then eat.

It was in my car, alone that the tears came. I sent a message to a friend telling them I was struggling with a bad day. Then it hit me. The air left my chest, my stomach ached and I let out a cry. It hurt to the depths of my soul where only God can see.

Today he accepted I was his daughter quicker. However he was in far worse shape hallucinating, anxious and less my dad. I know there will be a day I survive this just as I am surviving the loss of my marriage. But my dad not recognizing me is worse than my dad dying. In death he escapes to a peaceful home with Our Father in heaven. Not recgonizing me is a purgatory all its own.