8 Years And Counting

Calendar page courtesy of French Toast Prints

If my future is the same as Dad’s history, I have 8 years until the brilliant functions of my mind begin to dull.  OK, maybe the average functions will fall below the midline. And OK, maybe accelerate, not begin. Dull is the active word.

In 8 years, I’ll reach the age at which Dad’s organizational and speech abilities went into noticeable decline.  I’m taking steps to delay that onset, but my crystal ball is less than perfect. I don’t time the stock market well, either.

Smoking for 55 years could not have helped Dad very much.  I never developed a fondness for tobacco, so avoiding that pitfall was easy.  Let’s not talk about the Scotch.

Though Mom and Dad were physically active for most of their lives, that all changed after Mom took a bad fall while playing tennis.  One ailment led to another. The culmination was serious back surgery from which she never fully recovered. At that point, Dad greatly increased the time spent as supportive caregiver, and their activities became much more sedentary.  Walking their little dog around the block became Dad’s cardio for the day.

My good fortune includes the fact that my wife is extremely active, only occasionally taking a day off from her workout routine.  I just need to be able to keep up with her when we snowshoe, paddle, or walk the same little dog for miles. And she doesn't play tennis. Lucky me!

Not being the most trusting person in the world, Dad kept all the bills and receipts for each establishment neatly organized in box after box, each corresponding to a specific year.  All the cancelled checks were in other boxes, sorted by number.

This was the process without variation up until the year of demarcation.  The box for that year had some of the receipts missing, and the bills were not stapled together after being put in chronological order.  The next year, the bills and receipts were not sorted at all. They were all mixed together in the box, and the checks in the other box were not in order.  

There was still a box the year after that, but everything was just tossed in.  I don’t believe he even opened most of the bank statements. Thereafter, the records were only a large pile without any attempt at organization.  Junk mail drowned the documents of significance.

Get the idea?

After denial evaporated, when I finally realized that I needed to be involved in their finances, the downward progression revealed itself.  The financial records documented the onset of Dad’s Alzheimer’s. Months of after-work effort evenings were required to unravel the mess.

In my case, this won’t be a problem.  I’ve never been organized, so I can’t lose organizational ability.  Score one for chaos!

Dad’s world collapsed into a much smaller space as he and Mom aged.  His last attempt at learning something new was woodcarving. The loon-feather brooches he made were quite beautiful.  But he put the knives and paints down soon after, being more concerned with the routine affairs of daily living than forestalling mental decline by exercising his brain muscle.

Embracing new things is on my to do list.  I’ve switched to brushing teeth with my left hand.  Try it yourself, but be careful. Your eye will recover. 

I tried learning a few words of French. C’est de la merde, but at least it was an attempt.  

My complicit wife gave me a drone at Christmas.  The controller was clearly designed by people who previously perfected those two-handed video game controls I’ve never used.  It must have 15 knobs and buttons! Just recently, I’ve finally summoned the courage to take the drastic step of leaving beginner mode. Amazing how fast that thing can fly out of sight, particularly while you're looking for the return-to-home panic button. 

The bottom line is that if I persist long enough to actually learn to fly the damn thing with some semblance of skill, a great number of new neural pathways will have been formed.  That oughta help.

And this is without the bells and whistles

added when the cell phone is connected.

Clever to use the phone as the cockpit view screen.

It would be great to prevent history from repeating itself.  I actually like my children, and hope not to punish them unknowingly.  If they must be punished, it’s much better to appreciate the task, don’t you agree?  Hence having things in order by a certain age is also on the to do list. And maybe finding documents in the wrong places will alert my addled brain to unwanted changes, if I don’t rationalize and blame my wife.  Again.

Dad knew what was happening.  The only time he ever asked for real assistance beyond manual labor, Dad handed me a folder.  He thought it contained the financial records for his household, though it was only an incomplete sample.  “I need help,” he stated. “I just can’t do this anymore.”

Touching and sad at the same time.  Whether he grasped the full significance or not, he knew things had changed.  Better to acknowledge and adapt than to rail against or deny. Like Dad tried to do, even though it was well past the time when the finances had moved into my hands.

Even if this is the path I’m on, I’d be a fool to proclaim, “Woe is me.”  The joys of having lived long with my wife and family, and alongside generations of great people, far outweigh eventual mental diffusion and a distasteful end.  And I’m sticking with that story, at least until it happens. And since I may not know if it happens, I suppose I’m just sticking with that story.

Now that the mental exercise of writing this is complete, it’s time to get out there to stretch my legs and get some physical exercise.  At least for now, I’m pretty sure I’ll know which way to head to return.

Or maybe someone can use the drone to find me.