The Puzzle in the Mirror

"I can't sleep", I yell out loud to an empty bed in darkness. I'm tired, quite literally I am exhausted. The last few weeks I have felt more drained than a dozen pipes being snaked by a dozen plumbers.

It isn't easy to watch your father die slowly.

The man who once built buildings and started working at the tender age of 13, is losing a battle that is slowly leaving little cracks in his foundation. Cracks that no amount of plaster or elbow grease can fix.

As I lie in bed, feeling the heaviness of my sadness, I see his face every time I close my eyes. The face I see tonight isn't the handsome man with the big white smile and sparkling eyes though, it has been replaced with the image I seen earlier today when I visited him in the hospital.

It isn't easy trying to stay strong while visiting a cherished family member in the hospital. You don't want them to see the sadness in your face, and when you feel the emotion overflowing into your eyes you turn away and, depending on the moment, either say a prayer or swear.

My Dad has dementia.

Now that he's been admitted into the hospital, my visits with him are no longer to the cozy atmosphere of the home I grew up in.

I can no longer go in his warm bedroom and give him a quick kiss on his forehead to wake him from his comfortable slumber.

He no longer sleeps in the same bed with my Mom. She no longer has to wake him for his meals, assist him with his daily routine, and enjoy the quiet company of knowing he's safe in their bedroom.

We knew this day was getting closer, the day that he would no longer be home with our Mom. Some may wonder why not sooner? However, when you still have the familiar father during most parts of the day, filled with parts where he doesn't know you, doesn't know himself, and doesn't know his wife of over fifty years, then it's difficult to make the decision of taking him from the home he's known for over eighty years.

As the days and months wore on, the day we dreaded arrived. Dementia was slowly taking the joking and talkative Dad we knew.

Family gatherings in which our father's voice filled the room, telling jokes, laughing and playing his favorite music, was replaced with him asking the same question four or five times in the run of an hour, looking spaced out while trying to stay awake, and asking where was his Mom (who passed decades ago).

So, it was inevitable that the vessel holding the man we once knew was slowly emptying.

I often compared his mind to a jigsaw puzzle. Once upon a time it was complete, the frame fully interlocked and every single piece joined together forming a magnificent image.

As the years passed a piece would slowly come undone, and then another and another.

Finally, so many pieces come loose and misplaced that the magnificent image I once had of my Dad is replaced by one that breaks my heart and causes my restless slumber tonight.

I peak at my phone screen to see it is now past 2am. I decide to go downstairs and have an unhealthy cigarette. I convince myself that it will relax me. As I smoke, I think about the doctors and nurses and the fact that there's not much they can do for a dementia patient in the final stages of the horrible disease. Unfortunately, I live in an area where the health care system seems neglected and the staff can only do so much, especially when most days they seem to operate on a skeleton crew.

It's been 8 days, and I am witnessing first hand the rapid decline of my hero. I try to be patient with the staff because I know they are only human. My father, along with many other dementia patients are waiting in these hospital beds until one becomes available in our long term health facility. In other words, when someone else's mother or father dies, their bed will be cleaned and sanitized, and passed on to the next one on the list.

The list, one list I never want to be on. I've already told my oldest son, if I get like this, don't watch me die a slow death. I don't want him and his younger brother to go through the same horrific experience I am going through now.

My Dad is sick, this I know.

When he was home he ate hearty, he never left much on his plate. He used the washroom on his own, he dressed himself, and he combed his hair in a mirror in which he no longer recognized the man looking back at him. One time he asked me, while I was with him facing his reflection, "who is that man wearing my clothes".

Little things kept adding up culminating to the dreadful symptom of getting aggressive. This was when we knew as a family the next move should be the hospital. If not, the chance of something dreadful happening to our Mom was becoming more likely.

So, here I am, as I finish my smoke I reflect on day number eight.

My mother and I went to the hospital for another short visit to see the man who is slowly becoming unrecognizable. I read that short visits are recommended, not only for the patients well-being but for ours also. What we saw when we walked through the corridor doors is the image that remains in my vision when I try to get some much needed sleep. My Dad, sitting in a geriatric chair, restrained around his waist, wearing nothing but a hospital gown, his feet bare, and his eyes looking empty. As we walked towards him, I'm hoping for something from him that says he recognizes us. There is nothing.

I attempt to put his slippers on, and then proceed to talk to the nurse who is looking after him today. Again, I try to be patient but by now my emotions are beginning to sway more towards angry ones.

His lunch tray was not touched, we're told he didn't eat much breakfast, and he was very aggressive when the nurses tried to wash and dress him.

Obviously, they had to medicate him. Medication that is now causing this once vibrant man to sit there looking like nothing but an empty shell.

I told the nurse to please give him a bit of dignity and put a blanket around his bare legs, I reminded her that my father was very particular in how he dressed, he even made sure his pyjamas matched. We kept the visit short, but as my mom and I walked outside, we felt defeated.

We felt helpless and we were literally shocked to see him that way. As the rest of the day wore on, I gave in at an early hour and made my way to my bed. My head and more so my heart had enough.

However, no matter how hard I try, every time I shut my eyes my father's face haunts me. As a mother myself I'm lying in bed and wondering is he sleeping, is he OK, is he being aggressive. Finally sleep wins the battle, or maybe the nicotine did relax me, and I rest, but not before I say a prayer to a higher power asking please don't let my Dad suffer like this much longer.

11 days later...

My Dad had dementia. I can no longer say he has dementia because the man who I called Dad has passed on to another world with no pain and suffering. Were my prayers answered? I like to think yes.

Do I still see his face before closing my eyes at night? Yes, but not every night. Do I remember the image of him in the hospital gown, drooling, his eyes empty? Yes.

That image I now replace with one depicting him laughing and being the center of attention, before a horrible disease took over his mind.

The final weeks of his life are not times I try to dwell on, because quite honestly they are haunting. I'll only dwell on them when my emotions wish he was still here. I remind myself of his pain and I take solace in knowing he is now my angel. He lived a full life and he stayed strong until the very end.

The jigsaw puzzle I call Dad will always stay interlocked in my heart.