Today is fathers day, and as soon as I think about it I start crying.
My daddy darling has always been my hero.
When I got my drivers license, the first thing my dad taught me to do was change a tyre, and that has served me well a few times. If any of us got stuck somewhere, my dad would come and get us at the drop of a hat. When we lived at home, and went gallivanting, my dad would stay awake until we got home and he was sure we were safe. My dad went to school meetings with me when I was a single mom with an ADHD son and couldn’t face another judgmental panel of teachers.
I had a couple of boyfriends, and one of them described my dad as “a big oke with a gun” as my dad was wearing his big revolver when they first met. My dad loved torturing our suitors, who had to come to the house and ask my dad’s permission to take us out. My dad would sit in his chair, all big and intimidating, then going down the passage to his room and laughing his head off at the boy’s sweating in silence while trying to pluck up the courage to speak to him.
And now he looks small and frail… :'(
My daddy darling is being stolen from us. Its a little at a time, but its happening really fast. 🙁
Special days – Christmas, birthdays, Fathers Day, Mothers Day, Easter – were big occasions for my dad, and he loved celebrating them with all of us. We didn’t make plans to spend Fathers Day together this year, as it seems having too many visitors and people in and out in a day stresses my dad too much. :'(
I don’t know if he even knows its Fathers Day today.
He’s confused and fearful and sad. My mommy darling can’t be out of his sight for more than a minute without him panicking. He’s not sleeping, restless and wandering around the house. He can’t use the TV remote anymore. He keeps asking my mom when they’re going home.
I wish Dementia was a person so I could smack it upside the head and tell it to fuck off.
I’m angry and frustrated.
I don’t think I have never felt so helpless in my life.
A whilst part of me doesn’t want to talk about it, another part of me wants to talk to everyone about it.
And every time I think about what is happening to my dad, I start crying. I feel like I am already mourning my dad, but he’s still here, and it is so confusing.
I see a rack full of Asterix comics in a bookshop and I start crying. I see a Clint Eastwood movie or a war movie on the TV guide and I start crying. I get excited about feeding the birds in my garden – a love of bird watching in instilled by my dad, and I know he won’t remember us speaking about it.
I have caught myself speaking of my dad in the past tense already, but he’s still here…