Pitaji and me
It’s difficult to see your loved one in pain, but it’s much harder watching them forget their own loved ones. There are innumerable types of grief. Grief doesn’t only mean a loss of loved one to death, it can also include a loss of loved one when they are still alive.
This is my experience with my beloved father in law, who lived with Alzheimer’s disease.
When I first met my husband, I fell quickly in love with him. When we met, he told me that his father was living with Alzheimer’s disease. He was quite attached to him. My husband has so many good attributes – I think he’s perfect for me.
It was only after we were married, when I got to spend more time with my father-in-law, I realised my husband must have got these good qualities from him.
Alzheimer’s disease is a progressive. It gradually spreads through the brain and leads to symptoms getting worse. It was difficult for us to communicate with Pitaji. We tried to understand things by his reactions. Pitaji’s smile was angelic, and sometimes when he was terrified it was a puzzle for us to know what was wrong. We made assumptions. Sometimes, they were right and sometimes they weren’t.
He was an amazing soul, so kind. He kept his family united and was always ready to help others. He was well known at his workplace. I don’t know what led him to suffer like this, and why it had to happen to him. He was such a pure soul and always had a brightness on his face.
We have so many amazing memories with you, Pitaji. We used to have fun, when you clapped your hands, we would too. You used to come into the kitchen while I prepared meals. Your smiles and hugs after a hectic day made it all worthwhile.
I disagreed with anyone who said you didn’t understand what was happening around you. I think you picked up on every emotion more deeply than any other person in the house. Like when Mummy-ji teased me for not doing something correctly, you held my hand and gave me a smile. Your expressions were so comforting, they drew my anger away.
But it wasn’t easy not talking to you. I can’t imagine the pain of a family watching a husband and father struggling with dementia. Yet, they have countless memories and a strong bond, sharing half a life with you. You raised my husband, and had a sacred bond of marriage with Mummy ji, the head of our family. And you gave me so much love in two years.
Sometimes we didn’t know who it was harder for – you or us. At times it felt like you were vanishing and we couldn’t do anything to help you. It was difficult to watch you take bitter medicines, and become bed-bound. We hoped that the air mattress protected you from pressure sores, but we knew it didn’t work for a while.
Things got worse towards the last stages, you became vulnerable in so many ways, and it was very upsetting knowing that we were going to lose you. As well as Alzheimer’s, your brain was prone to seizures, and Parkinson’s. Your blood sugar levels were so high.
But we knew you were a fighter. You had to win this battle for sake of us. You faced so many ups and down over the past nine years fighting this clever thief, this bloody disease.
But one day, you became critically ill. The doctor told us that you had developed pneumonia and needed to be on a ventilator. Even then, we hoped you’d fight. It was especially hard for Mummy ji, not knowing how many days we had left with you.
Eventually, you were discharged from the hospital and came home. We told you, “We are here for you na, pitaji.” We made arrangements for oxygen and other medical supplies. We made soup. You improved and the doctor seemed happy. We were happy too.
But you couldn’t tell us then that this happiness would not last more than 15 days. One morning, your beautiful heart was not beating. The oxygen cylinder was full but your lungs were not functioning. You were sleeping so deeply, but your face was still shining.
That bloody disease had won. We lost you. It was devastating to see you go through Alzheimer’s disease, but worse knowing you were no longer with us. We had made so many arrangements to take care for you, but they all failed.
The house is empty without you. We are incomplete. Time heals, it’s true, but there’s no substitute for the bond and love we shared. We love and miss you, and wish we could heal these gloomy thoughts.
You loved me, Pitaji, even when your health wasn’t very good. But that love was far more than any father-in-law or a father could ever give to a daughter-in-law or a daughter. You were the best. The only thing this disease couldn’t take away is the love, whether yours or ours.
May you rest in peace and Lord Shiva bless your soul. We miss you here, but know that somewhere you are watching us.
Loving yours,
Niharika