More Dad

Life with Dad continues to deteriorate on some levels. His short-term memory is shot and he recognizes that fairly well. What baffles me is his critical slant. It rears its ugly head on almost a daily basis. He'll snipe at one of us. Why? We frequently don't know but, knowing his mindset as well as I do, I understand where it comes from. In his earlier years, a critical thought was usually his first thought about a person or a situation, and blame could easily be cast thus putting the other person on the defense. But back then he had what I call a 'social filter' and would tuck away that first thought and what would come out of his mouth would be something socially acceptable. And when negative thoughts were verbalized, they were usually done so to family members and, being the patriarch in a patriarchal family, family members were quick to kowtow in order to be readmitted into his good graces. (This is also common of people who hold a family's purse strings but not something Dad practiced, and for that I am thankful.) Now Dad feels that because he is 91, he should not be confronted and his behavior should not be questioned. This attitude is so internalized and automatic, that he seems stunned when one of us reacts to his unkind comments. The other night he told me he didn't put in his hearing aids because he didn't think we would be having dinner together. It was Sunday. If there's one night of the week when we dine together, it's Sunday. I called him a liar. This isn't something I do. In fact, I have never called my father a liar before. I did it a bit lightheartedly. But it was true, and he was stunned. He hates being called on his fibs, but he is fibbing more often. He hates being called on his bad, critical behavior. Again, he was the patriarch of a patriarchal family. When his father died in 1969, Dad took on the patriarchal mantel and in time grew quite comfortable with it. In that family, no one questioned the patriarch. He could say, act, or do anything he felt appropriate and be beyond reproach. Times have changed. Not everyone agrees with that. Respect is something that has to be earned and re-earned. It isn't automatic. Bad behavior is bad behavior, and Dad isn't coming to grips with that very gracefully.

The saga goes on. He makes a nasty, critical comment, expects it to be heard, taken in, and left without question. We respond honestly, and he looks shocked. If Kyle confronts him on it, he tries to pull the age card. "How can a 24-year-old talk that way to a 91-year-old?" Remnants of a time gone by, Dad isn't able to play the respect-your-elders game his forefathers played. On a few levels, that's bad for him. On most levels, I (we) think a person should be accountable for their behavior. Just because you're the eldest doesn't make any behavior excusable. You can't snipe and expect no reaction. Our world doesn't run that way. A century ago it did. Was it better then? I doubt it. But here's where it gets sticky. And I will admit I am torn about where I should fall on this: as one gets older and loses not only one's ability to function physically, many lose their social filters. Instead of tucking away his first, critical thoughts, Dad now says them. How much of Dad's snarky comments should be credited to that? And, if he truly has lost his social filter, why does he continue to defend his comments? Is that part of the gradual dementia he's experiencing? How much should I confront him? How much should I defend him? I find myself frequently unsure of how I should respond to his criticisms and to the kids' reactions to those criticisms. Dad fully defends himself. He evens retells things to paint himself as blameless even when I heard those incidents and know exactly what he did. Here's a further concern: If my dad was my biggest supporter, from let's say the time I was sixteen until the present, how much do I honor him as he deteriorates? Seriously, this is a big thought in my head. Is he only as good as his most recent behavior? If he is now a grumpy old man, does that negate the years of support and generosity? I don't think so. And I have tried to embark on new conversations with Laura about the role my dad played in making me the person I am, the one thing that separated me from being the professional I am today from being a clerk at Rite Aid, and one of the few consistently reliable elements in my life. Does three years of being difficult erase four decades of being my rock? When I look at him that way, I have to give an unequivocal no. When I look at the challenge of living with him in the moment, the answer becomes more difficult. There's a part of me that avoids him. It's the same part of me that doesn't want to hear the nasty remarks. Or have to answer the same questions over and over again. It's the part of me that clenches her teeth when he wants to talk to me alone because I know that no matter how positive the conversation starts out, there will be the inevitable dig at some other household member. It is another version of 'waiting for the other shoe to drop'. He can't be just sweet. We can't have just a nice, comfortable, mutually-supportive time alone. There is always the inevitable cutting remark. It can exhaust me.

But I feel there has got to be a way for us to go on. There has to be a way I can keep him in this home to honor what he was for me. I have often thought that he spent the time after he divorced my mother trying to make up for the damage that caused. He had hoped my and my sister's lives would be happy after our mother remarried and had other children. I know he wanted to think our stepfather had provided us with a good, secure existence. When it became apparent that that new life was rife with insecurity and financial woes, he stepped in to fill in the gaps. My sister and I always knew he would provide. I had a continual sense of him trying to say 'I'm here for you. I may have left your mother, and I may have thought you were doing okay, but I am here for you now and always.'

My thoughts about my father are equally as disjunct as this blog entry.