Nobody puts baillee in the corner

As I previously mentioned, I’m currently transitioning from angrily shaking my fist at the sky back to your regular, everyday, friendly, neighborhood Veronica Sawyer angst. One of the biggest contributing factors of said anger comes from my dad’s diagnosis. I’ve been avoiding writing about it for almost a month now because once I actually put everything into words, it’s real, and I can no longer hide from it. I have this nifty way of finding new hiding places at the bottom of bottles and packs of cigarettes, and the bad news is I’ve come to find it doesn’t work anymore. (Plus, booze and smokes are really expensive, and I’m a gal on a budget, and no one has ever gotten drunk off of Boone’s or gotten any nicotine from candy cigarettes.) 

That’s why I have to actually talk about my dad for a second. For the first 18 years of my life, my dad was a bastard. There’s no other way to phrase it. He was mean and angry and abusive, and I have many a’ diary entry to prove it. We constantly fought, and for several years, I despised him. 

The summer before my sophomore year of college, he left. We lost the only house I had ever lived in, and I became bitter. I spent my entire sophomore year hating my parents, and it took me a year and a half to heal after my mom took him back. Halfway through my junior year, I realized my father came back a different man. You can call me stupid. You can put the blame on him and say I owe him nothing. You can even call me Al. (Note: I may have stopped drinking and smoking, but I can’t stop using comedy to cope, so sue me.) The man who came back wasn’t just A dad but MY dad.  

He remembered when I had tests and asked me how they went, he took interest in my favorite shows and movies, and he never failed to tell me he loved me at the end of every conversation. It took me a long time to accept him back into my life, and that’s why I’m trying not to fall apart. I get to watch the dad I only had for three or four years completely disappear, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. 

Alzheimer’s is brutal and cruel. It’s what keeps my dad from reciting Marvel origin stories and arcs by heart. It’s what makes him sleep all day. It’s what makes him tell my mom to make sure we know he loves us because he fears the day he doesn’t recognize us. The hardest thing I’ve had to do thus far is speak at my grandfather’s funeral, but the second hardest by far is watching my dad’s disease progress. It’s tortuous. 

I’m learning to appreciate the small moments though, and it’s beginning to put a lot in perspective. With the holidays coming up, remember to hug your loved ones a little tighter, never forget to say “I love you,” and don’t be afraid to let them see you cry. Don’t be afraid to tell your friends what you need, and do something creative, not self-destructive to help. The biggest take away here though should be obvious: I love you, Dad.