Kelley Irwin

One day this week (Jan 2024) Dad asked me why he couldn’t see. He didn’t realize his eyes were closed.

We were having a typical, if not normal, conversation. Mom was telling me what they had for lunch and Dad was responding.
Mom: We had pasta.
Dad: That’s right.
Mom: It tasted pretty good.
Dad: Yes, it was delicious.

Dad watches for cues and participates in conversations. He is an expert at having my mom tell the story in a way that seems he is fully engaged. If he is leading the topic, it’s most likely not a true story. At least not true in the moment, but it could be completely accurate in another place and time. In his mind, his sense of time, his age and stage of life, are fluid. He often tells me (his only baby girl) that someone needs to check on the baby girl. Some days in his mind she is a newborn and other days she is three and doesn’t talk much. Every story about her (me) though is filled with love and affection. This is a new phase as most stories the past few months were about a work project that he needed to complete.

This day, there was no baby. Conversation about lunch and visiting with their friends Tom and Glenda. These were true.

And then…he started to close his eyes. I asked if he was getting tired. This is common for him after lunch and some socializing.
Dad: No. I’m not really tired.
He holds his hand in front of his face and says “I can’t see anything. Is there something wrong with my eyes?”
I say “It’s because your eyes are closed.” I think at this point he is teasing me.
Dad: No, I don’t think it’s that.
Me: Okay. I love you Dad.
Dad: I don’t think I’m supposed to say that to anyone except your mom.
Mom: It’s okay. You can say it to your kids.
Dad: Laughs, and says “I love you too”.
Mom gives him a big hug and he immediately drifts off to sleep.

It has been 14 months since we received a formal medical diagnosis of dementia. I am happy when Dad is happy.