A Wild Animal

Day after day my father and I talk on the phone, but he no longer remembers that we’ve spoken. Dementia has a way of making every day new for the person who is sick and most days virtually the same for those who are their caretakers. Once independent, talkative and curious, my father is now trapped in his mind and body. He now has two general responses to the question “How are you?” and I call and wonder which animal I will get when the two of us connect. 

Me: “Hi Daddy, how are you?”

Daddy: “I feel like a lamb.”

Me: “Like a lamb, really?”

Daddy: “Yes, like a lamb.”
(and then he bahs like a lamb)

Feeling like a lamb is OK because this means dad is feeling quiet and comfortable, even if he’s likening himself to a barnyard animal. This means I don’t have to worry because he's docile and not agitated or arguing in circles with my mother. It means he won’t yell at me, which is hard to handle. But as a lamb he’ll be resting or sleeping at the table all day and talking somewhat minimally - a shadow of who he was. 

Me: “Hi Daddy, how are you?”

Daddy: “Oh, I feel like a LION!”

Me: “Wow, like a lion, really?”

Daddy: “Yeah, like a lion!”
(and then he roars like a lion) 

This is my favorite. Why? Well, a lion is fierce and courageous. When dad feels this way I can hear a spark in his voice, a part of the man I once knew – our defender and protector. Wild animal or not, I take it because he’s alert and responsive, and this is infinitely more acceptable than a passive lamb. 

Dementia is a wild animal that has turned my father’s likeness into one too. What will I get on the phone with tomorrow, I don’t know? My only prayer is that he continues to ask for me and still says “I love you with all my heart” before we hang up. I carry his roar in every decision I make.