My Dad

My father has Alzheimer's. He was diagnosed in the spring of 2005 and my mother told us about a month after Henry was born.

I've wanted to post an entry about this for a long time, but it's not an easy thing to write about. My dad was not a good father, and watching him slowly slipping away has made me look at him with a critical eye.

When I think of him several words come to mind, none of them flattering: Controlling. Reclusive. Belittling. Bitter. Insecure. Angry. Petty. Unhappy.

I lived in fear of him growing up as I never knew when he would fly into a rage. He was often verbally abusive and sometimes physically so. To him, my sisters and I were nothing and had no say, no voice, no opinions. We were lucky to live in his house and eat his food and wear the clothes he paid for.


I look at Henry now and think how we scrimped to buy an organic mattress for his bed, how I researched to find out the cause of his skin rashes, how I have to restrain myself from buying him more toys, and I wonder how a parent could begrudge their children having more than they had as a child.

Because I know my dad had a difficult childhood, lacking in both financial security and nurturing. His own father died when he was young. The only memory he had of my grandfather was of him getting into a physical altercation with a neighbor and drawing blood. And his mother used to beat him with a broomstick when he wet the bed, something he did until he was quite old.

I know all about the cycle of violence and abuse, but I've broken it and it's difficult for me to understand how my dad could not.

My dad had a few interests, including gardening -- such as it was. Every year he grew tomato and pepper plants in garden beds against the back of the house. But he staked the beds off and wrapped a string around them, a reminder that we were not to touch them.


I think of this when Henry and I water our garden and pick green beans for him to eat. I want him to be a part of the things I enjoy. How could my dad not have wanted that, too?

Mostly, though, my dad watched a lot of TV, and I watched with him: Star Trek. Hill Street Blues. M*A*S*H. Cheers. The A-Team. Remington Steele. Night Court.

I wasted my childhood in television and fear, because of my father.

And now he's wasting away, unable to find the bathroom in his own house. Not remembering the day he married my mother. Not knowing how to put on a shirt. Unable to even watch TV -- the damn thing he paid more attention to than his own children.

And he doesn't know who I am anymore.


Ironically in his forgetfulness he's become the kind of person I would have wished him to be: kind, appreciative, thoughtful. So now I want to say to him, "I am your daughter and you were a horrible father. You terrified and belittled me. How could you treat your own child that way?"

But he's old and frail and what would be the point? He doesn't have the answers anymore, if he ever did.