Into the Trees

I recently went back to Pittsburgh, where the woods near my parents' apartment were dense with new leaves. When I had last visited, a month earlier, spring had still felt like a dream or a hallucination. Except for the tips of certain branches, the trees had been mostly bare; the ground had been coated with a faint sheen of green. Now the green was a carpet, a ceiling, and -- maybe -- a calling. 

In April, my father -- who last year was diagnosed with dementia -- still seemed like himself, but he had recently been going through a rough stretch. He now seemed more distant and disoriented, especially at night, and parts of his personality that I remembered would appear for a moment and then disappear. He was fading into and out of himself, the same way the leaves fade into and out of the forest.   

On this trip, when I spoke to him, he often met me with a blank stare. Did he understand? It was hard to say. But at other times, he revealed his trademark sense of humor. 'Is everything okay?' I asked him at one point as he was struggling to do something. 'What do you think?' he said. 'I'm old.' We both laughed a little. 

I knew he was still in there somewhere. 

According to the internet, dementia is 'a chronic or persistent disorder of the mental processes caused by brain disease or injury and marked by memory disorders, personality changes, and impaired reasoning.' 

There are stages to the disease, beginning with benign symptoms -- forgetting how to button a shirt, sleeping more than usual -- and progressing to 'complete cognitive decline.' No two cases are exactly alike. 

It's not always obvious what stage a person has reached. It only becomes clear that they need help in ways they once did not. 

Like so many conditions in life, dementia is not apparent until you're in it, although in retrospect it's easy enough to see the warning signs. I remembered the fall of 2020, when my brother and I got into a fight with him on a Zoom call about his ongoing support of Trump. 

If you had asked me then if he had dementia, I would have said 'yes,' but in the same way I would have said our entire country has dementia. 

There can be plateaus, periods when you can believe that the end is not as close as you might have feared. 'You need to live in the moment,' said the hospice nurse who has been attending to my father. 'Appreciate the good days when you get them.'

It seemed like a good philosophy, even for those of us who don't have dementia. 

I've been running through these woods for several years now, but they are still big and unfamiliar. It's easy to get lost, which even with a smart phone can be unsettling. 

But this fear -- and the corresponding remoteness -- is what makes the woods enticing. As I thought about my father, I hoped that for him, getting lost -- leaving behind the life he has known -- also has its moments of beauty. 

These days, my father no longer seems interested in politics. Like me, he seems frightened of the news. 

It was nice not to have to worry about arguing with him anymore. I stopped thinking about him as a Republican and remembered that he was my father. 

Instead of the news, he now likes watching nature shows, or just turning off the television and watching nature. He loves to see the birds and other animals crossing the field outside of his window. 

Perhaps, I thought, when I saw him happily watching the wild turkey, he was not as lost as I thought. 

Comments

[Sarah]

You captured the woods at the peak wildflower, lovely. My dad has Parkinson's and some dementia, and I thought you described it beautifully. I'm glad you got to spend some time together.