Like many WWII veterans, Dad didn’t openly express his feelings. I have always felt that the horrors of that war; seeing so many close friends killed and maimed, caused these veterans to withhold their feelings as a defense mechanism to avoid additional pain. Regardless of the reasons, Dad seemingly couldn’t express his feelings and struggled to accept our expressions of love.
I was in my early fifties and Dad was beginning to show the effects of Alzheimer’s before I ever heard him express something as seemingly simple as, “Your Mom and I are proud of you boys”. Even then, he tempered his expression with “your mom and I”. Dad simply could not verbally, much less physically, express his love for us. We knew he loved us, but he simply could not hug or kiss us, or allow us to hug or kiss him. Mom was much more expressive when we were little, but became less so as we grew into our teens. I vividly recall the visit to Missouri when I told Mom, “I can’t go back to Texas without first hugging you and kissing you goodbye”. It was awkward at first, but she allowed me to hug and kiss her from that visit onward and soon looked forward to a hug and kiss when I arrived and again when I headed back. Dad was very nervous that first time, fearing that I might hug him, and likely wanted to let me hug him, but he just couldn’t. Instead, he would fake like he was going to fight if we got too close. He had the same struggle with the grandchildren; he would play with them, he would dote on them, but he struggled to hug and kiss them.
As Alzheimer’s disease began to take its toll on Dad’s memory and his physical health, he required more and more help to accomplish the simple tasks of everyday living. At first, he might only need to be helped up from the chair or to be reminded of something that needed to be done. Later, he became totally dependent on Mom, Steve, Scott, and the social workers from the Veterans Administration and Hospice. In those last years, we would lift Dad from his recliner into the wheelchair, roll him into the bathroom, and lift him again from the wheelchair to the toilet or shower. Before lifting him, I would always tell him in a gentle voice what I was going to do, do it, then tell him what a good patient he was. Dad was one of the most appreciative patients I have ever encountered and, before he lost his ability to communicate, he always thanked us each time we helped him.
In those final days, I would always hug and kiss Dad as I lifted him. All the early resistance had long since passed. He seemed to genuinely like the affection I showed him. I knew he liked what I was doing; because if he didn’t like something, he might bite, kick, or pinch to let you know. He never responded to my affections in that manner. After Dad passed, Mom often told me how proud she and Dad were of me, and my brother, and our families and how very much she and Dad loved us. I would never wish that anyone should experience that dark path that we call Alzheimer’s, but it was on that path that I could, for the first time in my life, hug and kiss and openly express my love for my Dad. It was one of those rare blessings that came with that horrible disease.
Bradley Roberts Wyatt 