Uncle

On the way through Arizona Friday, we stopped in Scottsdale so Dad could see his one and only brother, Phil.

Uncle Philip’s Alzheimer’s is much further progressed than my father’s. After much struggle, the family has placed him at the Silverado, a nursing home for those with memory issues. Phil was placed there just two weeks ago.

Located in Scottsdale, the Silverado is a pleasant place, and not like the nursing homes I remember. The furniture and the wallpaper are all more reminiscent of a comfortably nice hotel. There is no acrid smell of hospital and incontinence. But the characters are the same: the slack jaw gapes, the sunken and sallow faces, the quiet torpor of the empty headed, the infirm and enfeebled, their brains like so much pudding. And the staff that speaks in that unmistakable slow enunciated and somehow condescending tone that we affect with 2 year-olds and 92 year-olds. “NOW, RUTH, WOULDN’T YOU LIKE SOME ICE CREAM? THERE YOU GO. NO, RUTH, THAT’S JOHANNA’S ICE CREAM YOUR ICE CREAM IS RIGHT HERE. COME SIT OVER HERE AND WATCH THE TELEVISION, YOUR FAVORITE SHOW IS ON, THE ONE WITH ALL THE ANIMALS. “

Aunt Gay met us there. We wandered about for a bit until we found Phil wandering about the halls.

He is a tall and animated soul, huge eyes, huge mouth, and was afire at seeing Dad, rushing at him arms flailing.
“Look who’s here.”
“who?
“Darrell”
“Darrell? God you little bastard!!”
He threw some fake punches, he embraced my Dad, he gestured and grimaced.… He was very happy with a great wide toothy grin, a shuffling gait, a wild-eyed agitation and happiness.

And clearly not the man we all knew, the smooth talking, quick-witted and commanding presence of Philip.

Dad immediately started in with stories of the long past. Dad had been working himself up with expectations of reliving the conversations of the past with his Brother. Phil and Dad would talk once or perhaps twice a year, usually a long phone call recounting recent conquests and accomplishments, and then reliving old stories of feats of their youth.

It had likely been more than a year since they had spoken. And Dad was really hoping to awaken Phil’s mind with those same stories. As we drove that morning from Tucson to Scottsdale, Dad was sitting in the passenger seat and I could see him mouthing words, rehearsing the memories and stories.

But Phil is almost completely gone. Yes, he clearly remembered the names, had big reactions to the name of his track coach Payton Jordan, and the infamous Cousin James “a wild sonovabitch”, “man was crazy!!” But Phil was having trouble finishing sentences, often replacing lost words with the babbling of the mouth: “They really had a great- a great- bleybleybleybleybleybleybley” A tongue-wagging lip-burbling vocalization finished his thoughts when he couldn’t grab the words.

That is where Phil is now. 2 or 3 years old. He recognized his wife, his brother, his daughter. He has flashes of biting wit, this example being typical we were told: His eyes are closed, his head downcast, and Elaine, my cousin just arrived from New York, is recounting her time and eventual escape from the world of hedge fund analysis. She saying that the manager was taking all the wrong positions… .more on biotech… more on gen-tech…
Phil pipes loudly… “OH… he’s a MORON!”

We spent almost 5 hours sitting around a table out in the courtyard. We fell into the natural dyads, Dad and his Brother, Mom and Gay, myself and Elaine. Dad was to comment several times after that he had to keep reminding himself that was his brother, that it was not his brother, neither did it look like or act like the man in command of life he knew.

It became time to go, Dad signaling that we needed to get on the road. We walked with Phil and Gay and Elaine out the RV.

In the moments of his saying goodbye likely for the very last time, Dad came to me, and with my arm around him, he laid into me about taking over the driving, how he was the one on the Fire Department they had train guys to drive… he said, gesturing at me with pointed finger: “Kiddo, I know more about driving than you ever will.” I admitted that was true. He laid into me about how he had trained many a man how to drive bigger trucks than this, and he was “not crazy even if your mother thinks so.”
“Do you want to drive us out of Phoenix?” I offered. A pause. “No, no, I am a bit shaken from all of this.” His brother was still hovering in Gay’s arms just a yard away, swaying in the breeze of his nearly empty skull.

He was not yelling, just forceful, and saying these quick few sentences as the rest of the crowd, Mom, Elaine, Gay, Phil gathered and exchanged embraces. But it was out of character and was surely borne out of the emotional meeting (and I hope not my squirrelly driving). Early in the meeting, Dad actually smacked the table to quiet the gathering “HEY, this is about MY BROTHER…” This is so out of character. Smacking the table and raising his voice. The last time I saw him upset like that it was 1972. He never yelled, was always gentle.

As we headed down the road, he was weepy, wet eyed, emotional. He sat in the back with Mom. I drove through the traffic of Phoenix as my vision blurred with tears.

Dad: “it just shocked me” “today was tough for me” “”today was emotional for me” “I feel like someone came up and ate my brother” “I wasn’t expecting this” “That was not my brother”

These phrases have kept on, even now at 10pm, some 6 hours later. He repeats the stories that he was rehearsing about Phil, he tells those things he was always proud of, he returns again to how shocking it was to see that his brother was already gone. That he should have come earlier. That something had taken his brother away. “Something came and ate my brother.”

A monster had been feeding on Philip’s mind, its brain-lust insatiable. The monster had almost finished his repast, and is looking forward to desert. The medulla’s final functions of swallowing and breathing will be its tiramisu and brandy.

And Dad’s monster, which he calls Mad Cow, is fully tucked into its meal, having finished the soup and fish course. The main course of father’s mind is laid upon the table. His personality is still there, cooling on the plate. His infinite patience, his gentleness, his silly humor and bad puns, his deep cherishing love of his wife. These are here, but so much is gone. His confidence, his sense of direction, his memory for events of the day. Instead there is fear, confusion, doubt, and resignation.

Tears stream down my face, sitting here at the booth of the RV just past dawn. The younger brother will go the way of the older brother. My father is disappearing.

Saturday is our last day on the road and some 300 miles across the base of California and to home.