Kelley Irwin

One day last week, (Sep 2024), after 5 holes of mini-putt golf, Dad collapsed into my arms with barely a moment’s warning.

It has been 22 months since we received a formal medical diagnosis of dementia.

Conversation this day:

Dad – What are we doing here?

Me – We’re going to play golf.

Dad smiles. He then walks the wrong way. I redirect. We find our way to the cashier, get our club and ball, and off we go.

Dad lines up for the first hole like a pro. It looks like he is confident and understands what we are doing. A moment later he takes one hand off the club and looks at me.

Dad: What am I doing?

Me: It’s your turn to hit the golf ball.

Dad: Now?

Me: Whenever you are ready.

He hits the ball and then sinks his second shot. It’s a sunny day, the course is stunning with waterfalls and gardens and fountains. Dad is smiling and walking pretty well. Mom hits a hole in one and Dad cheers. We approach the third hole.

Me: Do you like this course?

Dad: I love it!

These moments can trick my brain. Dad’s doing great. He’s happy, he’s walking, he’s talking, and he’s golfing. Maybe he’s better than we think.

We finish the fifth hole. Dad looks at me and says “I can’t do anymore.” I think he means golf, but he means literally he can’t do anymore. He can’t stand. Within seconds, he collapsed into my arms. I am now holding his entire body weight.

Mom: Are you okay?

Me: Yes. I just need to think.

It takes a while, but we manage to travel safely backwards on the course to the starting point. We get Dad seated on his walker, he stands to cross the barriers, and I hold him tightly to lift him up and down each time. Mom talks him through each transition, Dad is trusting us, and everyone is calm.

Five holes, and arriving safely back at the car, have taken more than two hours. We’re all exhausted and HOT! We have a cold drink and a small laugh at the ordeal. Even Dad is in on the absurdity of the situation. The adventures are worth it.

Dad, whispers : You always know what I need. I don’t even have to ask.

That’s my Dad.