“Hey, Dad,” is how I always answer the phone when he calls. Even at 10:30 p.m. on Sunday, for our 16th call of the day. This one has lasted 25 minutes so far. I’m exhausted, trying to explain the difference between a.m. and p.m., while holding back tears, and miming exasperation to my husband while he tries to get our kids settled for the night.
“But I’m just missing something here. What do you mean, ‘When it’s light out?’” my dad asks.
Dad is probably one of the estimated 7 million people in the U.S. living with Alzheimer’s Disease. I say “probably” because he’s so far refused to complete the testing that would confirm the diagnosis. Be that as it may, lately, he can’t tell night from day. He next called at 1 a.m.
When his neurologist asked if I’m an only child, I said, “Yes, and I have two brothers.” To be fair, though, my brothers do as much as they can. I’m in the hot seat because I’m on all of the paperwork. Meme-wise, Gen X eldest child who is a daughter that looks like a perfect storm of congenital sarcasm and relentless caregiving. The Alzheimer’s Association estimates there are nearly 12 million people providing unpaid care for those with Alzheimer’s and dementia. I’m one of them.
