As usual, my heart twists when I see him. He looks so much older than he is. It’s so hard not to clench my fists and rage out loud at the universe sometimes.
“Ben, you’re here early!” Dad says once he’s comfy in his chair. He gives me a big smile, and some of the tension bleeds out of me as I return it.Okay. At least we’re starting off in a good place for today’s visit.Corinna gives us a wave as she heads out, closing the apartment door behind her.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, sitting down in one of the other chairs.
“Trouble sleeping last night, hon?” Mom asks, taking a sip from her coffee. “You’ve got bags under your eyes.”
“No, not… well, actually, yeah, I guess you could say that,” I say, staring out the window.
“Anything you want to talk about?” she asks.
I hesitate. I don’t know how much to share. I know sometimes talking about his old hockey career can set Dad off, but just as often, bringing up those glory days will push him from a crappy mood into a better place. He seems to be doing well today, so I chance it, catching them up on the speech I’ll be making later tonight. When Mom hears that Dr. Madsen’s wife isn’t well, she gets concerned. When I was going to school in Boston, my parents would visit, and Dr. Madsen is a huge hockey fan. I introduced them, and the four became good friends. Before Bob’s condition got too severe, the four of them even took a couple of vacations together. Dennis has been pretty closely involved with my dad’s care right from the start, consulting fairly regularly with Dad’s doctors here.
“Oh, dear, I hope Rosemary is alright. I’ll have to call them this week to check in,” she says.
“I think she’s okay. At least that’s what he told the event organizers. Just sounds like he didn’t want to leave her alone at the moment,” I say, and my mom nods.
“I know you hate public speaking, honey, but you’ll do a great job tonight,” she says with an encouraging smile.
“Yeah. Thanks, Mom.” I swear, I don’t know how the woman stays so positive.
Bob has gone unnaturally quiet, and it’s hard to tell what’s going on in his head. But the answer becomes clear a minute later when he looks at me with a snarl on his face.
“Thefuck?” he roars. Instinctively, I move to put myself between my mom and him, but it’s doubtful he’ll be able to get out of his chair, which, while painful to watch, is a relief. These episodes were a lot scarier when he could move around more easily.
“You’re going to help those motherfuckers? You think you’re better than me?” he growls, leveling me with a vicious glare. I swallow hard.
“No, Dad, I didn’t mean anything. I was just talking about my work, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything for you,” I say calmly.
Behind me, I feel my mom get up from her chair gingerly. Slowly, she approaches my dad’s armchair.
“Bobby, it’s okay. You’re fine. We’re just talking right now,” she says in her gentle, reassuring voice, which contains a slight tremor.
Dad doesn’t seem to hear her as his eyes become wilder and he starts to shout.
“You think you’re better than me? I’ll show you who’s the real man here! No one does this to me! Nobody!” he yells, his voice rising with each word. His hands clench into fists, and he looks ready to go on a rampage. Without thinking, I grab Mom’s arm, yanking her out of his reach. My heart races as rage contorts my dad’s face. Suddenly, without warning, he lashes out and slaps me—not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to sting.
I grab my cheek and step back from his chair, swallowing the tears that threaten to spill over. This is so painful. Never in my entire life has heeverraised a hand to me. This goddamn disease is eating his brain, and it’s devastating to watch.
My mom walks quickly over to the table where her emergency call button is sitting, but I stop her before she can press it. She’s supposed to always have it within arm’s reach in case anything happens to set him off, but he’s been doing so well lately her guard is down.
“Mom, wait, it’s okay. Just go get someone. Don’t do the whole emergency thing. We’re okay.” We’ve only had to use the emergency button a couple of times, and each time, it caused so much stress and chaos that Dad was a mess for days afterward.
She gives me a look and then darts her gaze to my dad, but he seems to have quieted down and is sitting back in his armchair with a dazed look on his face, like he knows something just happened, but he doesn’t know what.
My mom hurries to the suite’s door, returning moments later with Victor, one of my dad’s favorite care aides.
“Bobby, Victor’s here to talk with you,” she says, her voice a little steadier now.
“Hi, Bob.” Victor approaches him slowly, a sunny smile on his face. His unpredictable behavior is one of the biggest reasons Dad insisted on moving into this place, even though it broke both their hearts to do it.
After Victor talks quietly with him for a few minutes, Dad decides he wants to go to bed. He hugs Mom and me like nothing has happened in the last half hour. I guess for him, it hasn’t. Sometimes it feels like this disease is a monster that sits around in the corner, patiently waiting to come out as soon as Dad lets his guard down. And once it’s come out and caused as much chaos and heartbreak as it can, it disappears back into the corner, sitting patiently until the next opportunity.
The rain has stopped as Mom and I exit the front doors of the residence. As we make our way to our cars, skirting around the puddles in the parking lot, she grabs my arm and gives it a squeeze.
“You okay?” she asks, and I nod, not trusting my voice.
I’m not really okay, but I should be used to this. It’s far from the first time it’s happened. Finally, I swallow the lump in my throat enough to choke out, “Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”
