My Dad. You know, the one that as long as he was around, everything would be fine. As a little girl, I thought he could do no wrong. I always felt safe. When Dad was home, there was noise, activity, a television blaring, hunting boots and fishing poles. There was life on the Air Force base with F-18's keeping the skies functioning at full speed ahead. At night, taps reminded us, all was well and we were indeed safe.
When Dad went to Vietnam in the early 60's, even though my mom was home, I didn't feel very safe. Dad was gone. The evenings were quiet. There was no tv. Mom didn't care for it much and would rather play soft music on her stereo hi-fi. During that year, we lived off base close to family in Houma, La. We rented a tiny house. There wasn't an Air Force parade of military jets and MP's to keep me safe. I felt vulnerable.
So, fast forward to 2013. Last month my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. We watched my Dad slowly losing his memory. His hearing is bad and showed some early signs. Maybe we didn't want to know. Maybe we hoped it would take a long time. But, ultimately, we had to face it. The doctor ran him through the typical tests. She asked him to draw the clock (he couldn't remember where to put the 12). She asked him if he knew what season it was (he didn't). She asked him if he remembered his highest level of education (he couldn't remember that he had a Master's Degree). She asked him if he knew where he was and why he was there. (he did not)
My Mom and Dad sat in the waiting area. Dad said, "I am a retired United States Air Force Lt. Col. I've been decorated 8 times and I don't know where the hell I am."
They both cried.
I feel vulnerable, again.
