Dementia and My Divorced Parents

Watching both my parents, in their late eighties, sink simultaneously into the alternate reality of dementia has been heartbreaking. Both vibrant, larger-than-life charismatic characters, their former selves would have been horrified if they had been aware of their mental decline. 

We attempt to maintain a fun and entertaining attitude for them and find surprising advantages to their condition. The sitcom and dark comedy environment we had as children continues, albeit with a different spin.

My parents, Frank, and Natalie, married in 1955. He was a bebop jazz musician, and she was in college. They ended up in suburbia in the 1960s when Dad's career shifted to sales and Mom taught kindergarten. Their marriage deteriorated along with Nixon's presidency. Dad's gambling, womanizing and untreated bipolar disorder accelerated their break-up.

Their divorce in 1975 after twenty years of marriage was contentious. My mother was filled with rage over his philandering and gambling away our future at the racetrack. My father, usually an elegant dresser, showed up at divorce court in a shabby suit and his psychiatrist's declaration that he was too unstable to hold a steady job and pay child support. At eighteen, I was asked by my mother's attorney (who eventually became her boyfriend) to testify that my parents had not been intimate for the prior two years.

Dad remarried shortly after the divorce, but my mom held a grudge for over forty years until her dementia resulted in her not remembering she had an ex-husband. They both forgot the other existed and stopped talking trash about each other. But they also forgot who we were and acted like we were meeting for the first time.

I normally reside 2000 miles away, but for the past two years I have lived about five months a year full time with my mom in the house I grew up in. My sister, who lives close by, takes the heavier burden, along with daytime caregivers. When possible, I have been driving 80 miles to give my stepmom a break and take my dad, who had bladder cancer, to his chemo infusion and doctor appointments. On my way back to Mom, I stop halfway for some retail therapy to keep me sane.

My mother first started showing signs of mental decline in her late seventies. I noticed odd behavior, irrational thinking and inability to handle her finances. A red flag went up when I told her about my brand-new beau Joe.

"I'm not going to your wedding!" she announced, adding, "I threw away all my mother of the bride dresses after your last wedding to the bipolar angry Italian and your sister to that other horn player, what's his name."  

I had just met Joe, but she was convinced I had marriage in mind. This was not entirely unreasonable as she's had two daughters and seven sons-in-law over four decades. It would be eight if you count my common-law marriage to a socialist playwright from Liverpool.

Both parents still play piano with the same skill as before. He plays his original compositions, sweeping cocktail piano and 1960s Mancini-like movie themes. She favors the Great American Songbook, and Christmas tunes in July. We often sing jazz standards during meals, and she remembers all the lyrics.

My father displayed processing issues in his mid-eighties then went over the edge after chemotherapy and anesthesia. His wife of 45 years became "That lady." He has grilled me on my residence, religion, where I was born and marital status. He broke into laughter when I told him I had been married three times. All my answers to his questions seemed to amuse him so I played along with the idea we had just met.

There are many positives about my parents losing their memory. No longer does Dad give unsolicited advice and get angry if I don't follow it. No more political rants and only small amounts of his Social Security disappeared at the racetrack. Eventually he couldn't figure out to make bets but just enjoyed the racetrack ambience of fellow gambling degenerates and the hot dogs.

Decades post-divorce, my mother had still been resentful of me and my sister spending any time with my father and his wife. Now, we don't have to hide that we visit them as she doesn't remember they exist.

Even after my mother's married boyfriend of 35 years died, she barely reacted. A few hours after reading his obit in the local newspaper she announced, "I think I'll call his wife and ask for my house key back." The decades long affair was there somewhere.

My mother can't remember having three kinds of cancer (ovarian, breast and rectal) and the grueling treatments. When I pointed out I was her daughter, my mother replied, "Impossible. You're just making that up."

My mother recognizes actors on Turner Classic Movies. "That's Myrna Loy, Barbara Stanwick, Clark Gable," she says, yet she doesn't know who the hell I am. 

With both parents, it's a clean slate as I am a stranger. We don't trigger any buttons with each other and have light conversation. The fights, confrontations, resentments vanished, replaced with small talk and fleeting recollections of people and places.

A long proponent of healthy eating, Dad was an amateur gourmet chef who banned soft drinks and fast food when we were young. I watched as he scarfed up a Taco Bell and a large Coke one day after a chemo infusion. His former self would have been shocked and probably say, "just put a bullet in my head."

Dad was certain I was with him in 1946 when as a waiter at a Jersey shore restaurant he sold oregano in a cigarette wrapper to a Mafioso and called it "Black grunge." 

Recently he called my mobile phone. It was clear he didn't know who I was but was frantic. "I went to bed with twenty grand in my pocket and when I woke up it was gone!" he said.

At that moment I was dealing with my mother who had just taken a forced shower and was naked on her bed. She asked who was on the phone. I said, "Frank" and put him on speaker phone as he ranted about the missing money. 

"Did you check under the pillow?" she asked, and he responded, "Good idea."

Angela Page is a writer and producer. Her films are featured on the Shorts TV channel, FunnyorDie and Indiepix. She is the author of comic romance, "Matched in Heaven," novella and dating guide "Suddenly Single Sylvia" and the recently released crime comedy,"There's a Dead Girl in My Yard."  Her articles have appeared in the Huffpost, the Independent and Sheknows. Angela divides her time between Los Angeles and Southeast Florida.
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