Jeff Krock

My dad was well into his Alzheimer’s disease when I went to see my parents in 1995. I picked up my rental car at the airport and drove to their home in Worcester, Massachusetts. Sorrow was my immediate response when my weary mother opened the door. She had been my dad’s sole caregiver for the past three years and she was worn out. Fortunately she had recently started taking him to an Alzheimer’s day care program.   

It was mid-afternoon, time for my dad to come home. So I agreed, happily and reluctantly, to drive over to get him. Having been out of the country, I hadn’t seen him for many months and did not know what to expect. My mother suggested that I take my uncle Victor with me. My dad and my uncle had been best of friends for more than 50 years.

Victor and I drove to the day care facility. I parked by the entrance, went in, and found him slouched in a chair staring off into space. Another shock of sadness and sorrow. He didn’t know who I was and didn’t seem to know much of anything else either. I helped him put on his jacket and we went out to the street. I kept on adjusting my inner self to stay grounded and present, and paid attention to how he was being and what he was doing. As we walked out of the building and toward the car, my dad’s eye caught a small chrome insignia on the side of it. While I guided him in the direction of the door, he moved toward that little piece of chrome and aimlessly touched it, and then seemed to disappear right into it. There hadn’t been much of him there and now there was less. I was a bit stunned. More sorrow. I chose to stay in the moment.

I got us both settled into the car and saw my uncle Victor in the rearview mirror–looking both shocked and frightened at my dad’s vulnerability and inability to even notice that Victor was there. We went for a drive.

My dad got a bit chatty, mumbling this and that– some of it hardly audible, none of it seeming to make any sense. If you have been around someone with this disease, you know what I mean. Victor tried to join in but gave up; he looked so discouraged and hurt. I began talking with my dad, simply asking him some questions. He seemingly stayed in his own distant world, mumbling his words. Rather than pull away, I really listened to what he was saying. I realized that sooner or later in all his mumbling, he was answering my questions. We were actually communicating.

I asked him if he liked going to day care. In the middle of other confusing chatter, he answered my question about two minutes later, “I don’t like going there.” I asked him, “Why don’t you like going there?” Once again, in a minute or two, he answered my question, “They make us dance.” It was clear to me that, in the middle of being so distant from Victor, me, the car, and himself–across a great divide of his disconnectedness and aimless chatter, he was aware that we were conversing.

My next question was “What’s wrong with the dancing?” And then the world changed. He answered about 10 seconds later, but it was my real dad, my familiar dad that answered. Almost as if he parachuted into the car and into his body, he simply showed up. He was there, right there with us, and with his sense of humor. He jokingly said, “All the women are too old.” His familiar presence instantly gave life to the bond among the three of us and we roared with relief, laughter, and pure joy. For about four minutes my dad was right there with us as if his Alzheimer’s never existed. Then he was gone again.

This was the last time I saw him. He died in a nursing home a few months later. My final memory of him is this painful, glorious mix of sorrow and delight.

My joy was in surrendering to the moment of being with both my father and uncle. Here was a perfect example of living in the present and what the Buddhists describe as “non-duality.” All aspects of life happening simultaneously. Being one.

The writing above conveys aspects of the following Advanced Capacities: Heart Presence, Connection, and Command of Our Life Force.

©2008 by Jeff Krock. All rights reserved.