Remembering – My Patient Father with My Impatient Childhood

After my mother passed, I spent time with my father.

Despite working 16-hour days, I carved out time to keep in touch. I learned later that there’s a name for people like me—long-distance caregiver. In the early days, I’d never admit to such a label, but that’s what I became. If that wasn’t enough, I graduated to “primary caregiver” after my father was diagnosed with dementia and later, Alzheimer’s. Initially, this meant flying from California to Wisconsin to spend time with him and see how he was doing and calling him twice a month.

Months later, his case worker reached out to me.

Case worker? I had no idea!

The social worker in Milwaukee County was questioning his ability to live alone safely.

Little did the case worker or I know how dire the situation had become.

During one of my visits, I went down to the basement to investigate that lingering musty smell. I couldn’t make sense of it. There was little humidity and I saw no evidence of laundry despite the washer in that room. Nor was there a pile of musty clothes needing to be washed. The walls were dry. No mold or mildew in the corners. The basement was dry.

Bolstered with confidence from an incident with the gas company in California (a slight smell in the kitchen turned out to be a leaky valve near the stove), I called the gas company.

I explained the yearlong musty smell and the lack of moisture. They assured me a person would come by that afternoon. While I waited for them to arrive, I wandered further into the basement.

The other rooms unveiled vivid memories of my childhood.

The room straight ahead was sectioned off in the corner by two old dressers. A long dresser to the left had a makeshift bookcase on top. The other chest dresser was positioned perpendicular to the right leaving a space in between to enter the closed-off area. This was my brother’s private space. His bedroom was upstairs, but this is where he, eight years older than I, did his homework. He likely enjoyed the peace and quiet away from his two younger sisters.

My sister, older by two years, and I studied and played upstairs.

Sometimes, when I couldn’t figure out a math assignment, my mother would “persuade” my brother to help me. My brother and I didn’t get along most of the time. I was too energetic. Though, when he was in a good mood, we had fun.

To the right of the chest dresser was the doorway to my father’s large workroom. He spent hours during the weekends tinkering with endless home-improvement projects when he wasn’t working two almost full-time jobs.

On the weekends, I’d run downstairs to help him. His tinkering was a welcome change from studying or reading books. Plus, he was pleasant to be around and he was patient.

My father would hum old tunes from the forties. When he was in a particularly cheerful mood, he would sing words. My mother would say, “Mardig (Armenian for Martin) doesn’t know the words. He sings the same thing over and over again.” My father sang the memorable refrains.

One day, when I was about nine years old, he entrusted me to do something awesome (for a nine-year old). Holding a soldering iron, my father told me I could help him IF I promised to pay attention. He explained that I’d need to focus and concentrate while I held the blowtorch so he could solder something. Excited, I promised. A nine-year old with a blowtorch!

Try as hard as I might, my mind wandered. I was a nine-year old with the attention-span of a gnat. When my attention finally came back to… What is that smell?

“Please move the torch,” he said.

It was likely the second or third time he made this comment. Eeeeeuuuuwwww. That smell… burning flesh. I had burned his hand.

Horrified, I feared he would send me upstairs. I wanted so much to help him with his fun projects. He was calm. Instead of getting angry, he reminded me, “If you want the job, you need to keep your head about you.”

I turned off the blowtorch and placed it on his workbench. I was prepared to go upstairs. He promised that I could help him with another task.

WOAH, a MASSIVE Gas Leak!

Five men showed up from the gas company. There was a major leak in the gas line underground between the road and his house. They had to rip up the cement walkway to the front door.

To think, I had smelled this for over a year. That wasn’t all. My father hadn’t paid his house insurance in nearly a year!

Yes, my father could no longer live alone safely. My brother and sister chose not to be as engaged in our father’s care. I had to explore options.

And that’s when I became a family caregiver… after I bought that one-way plane ticket for him to California.

Reminiscence revised and excerpted from “Where’s my shoes?” My Father’s Walk through Alzheimer’s.