Kelley Irwin

One day last week, Dad whispered “help”. He needed help to zip his sweater. These days, we know why he asks for help.

It has been almost one year since he received a formal medical diagnosis of dementia. There are days his fine motor skills seem absent, and other days they work as well as they always did.

One day in 2019, Dad asked me to help him buckle the seatbelt. I teased him a little, said these new cars hide the contraption down inside the seat, and leaned over and buckled it for him. When he asked me again each time we got into the car that week-end, I wondered if he had arthritis.

One day in 2020, Dad softly said “help me” when he was cooking dinner for me and my mom. The meal was one he had made many times, but he seemed unsure of himself. I wondered if he was tired after our long day of activities.

One day in 2021, Dad took me to his bank and introduced me to his bank manager. He then sat me down at his desk at home and walked me through a folder of legal documents. He didn’t ask me to do anything, but said “one day you may need to help”.

One day in 2022, Dad asked mom to help put together the forms and receipts for their taxes. He had done the taxes alone for their 60 years of marriage. We wondered if he was having trouble seeing the small print.

There were many smaller moments of asking for help. If all these moments happened at once, we might have suspected cognitive issues. Then again, we might not. It’s easy to misunderstand the signs of dementia. And the patient is often very good at explaining away each situation at the time it occurs.

Dad was always strong. Dad was the one to help me. Hearing his soft little voice say “help” is heartbreaking. I know he doesn’t want to ask for help. I’m happy he is able to ask, and accept the help he needs.

After I zipped his sweater, he said “just like that” and smiled at me. I said “yep, just like that”.

(Photo of Dad sitting at his beloved desk in 2020)