It’s Probably a Good Thing for Society That You Can’t Divorce Your 84-Year-Old Father

Oh, but if I could…

Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

I know he has dementia. But there’s this part of me that also knows that he was not always a nice man long before dementia set in. So his dementia-induced anger and my feelings of daddy-treated-everyone-else-better-than-me is a dangerous combination.

We argue about food. We argue about money. Always the money.

Yesterday he argued with me about the nationality of his ophthalmologist as we drove home from his appointment. Okay, first of all, the reason he was at the ophthalmologist is that he has severe cataracts and needs surgery that he put off five years too long because he didn’t like the last guy.

So I found it pretty funny that he described this guy, whose face he has only seen through a brown haze, as clearly from another country because of his “big, old, long snout.” To be fair, the doctor does talk with a hint of an upper midwestern accent. I must have snorted a little at the long snout comment (which the doctor does not have) and the bell rang for the next round.

Round two involved the likely outcome of the surgery. Even though I read aloud the document I signed for him that stated in three different ways that there were no guarantees regarding the amount of vision to be regained.

We can’t even agree on the weather. Football is about our only safe zone of conversation these days and even that is on shaky ground if the Cowboys lose.

I have never wanted out of a relationship so badly in my life.

The arguing wears me down. It breaks my heart in more ways than I could ever have imagined for him to yell at me about stupid stuff like the proper size of baking potatoes.

His sense of time is non-existent.

He’ll say, “I had a shower on Monday.”

So I respond, “I think it was Thursday,” thinking I’m being helpful. But it simply sets off the rage.

My helpfulness angers him.

Today’s biggest argument was about where his pickup truck is parked. You know, the one he can’t drive? He wants the truck where he can see it from the front window.

I tried to explain how I’m helping his aides and nurses. We’ve had a rash of cold, wet, windy days. Giving them the best parking spot by moving his truck seems like the polite thing to do to me, never mind that it makes my slog through the mud hauling trash out and groceries in a wee bit shorter.

But the four-year-old boy that rules his brain wants his toys where he can see them. And it’s impossible for me to stop trying to help him see the logic.

On days like this, I simply want a divorce. I didn’t take any vows to this man. There’s no ’til death do us part’ clause on my birth certificate.

All I can do is nod. My friend who survived her caregiver years told me I may need a tattoo on my forearm that says: “You cannot argue with a mental illness.”

I’m looking into that, but I keep walking into these damn arguments like a blind rat runs into walls. I honestly don’t feel like I am arguing some of the time. My husband says I should simply stop talking when I can tell my dad is getting angry, except that seems to increase the anger.

“You think I’m lying?” he shouts. “I’m not dead. I’m not stupid.”

No, Daddy, but you are not able to think clearly, and you have no idea how sorry I am about that.

At least he doesn't want to send me to jail like he did recently.

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