“I’m sorry, Nadia,” I say. “If you don’t want to –”
She shakes her head, taking a step back, and wipes at her eyes. “No, I want to help.” She gives me a weak smile. “You’re family.”
“We are family. But I know how difficult this –”
Nadia takes my hand and squeezes it tight. “We’re family. That’s all that matters,” she responds. “I’m here to help.”
“I appreciate that, Nadia. More than you can possibly know.”
Her smile this time looks more genuine. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I walk my cousin to the door and lock it behind her. Turning around, I lean against the door and run my hands through my hair, letting out a long breath. I know this is a temporary situation with Nadia – I can’t expect her to be here every single day. Not when she has her own life to lead, and certainly not at the pittance I’m able to pay her.
It works for now since she needs a job, and I need home care for my father. But it’s a situation I’m going to need to find a permanent solution for soon.
The trouble is that I can’t afford the one solution I think would benefit us all – putting my father into a facility. A facility that can care for him and attend to his needs in ways neither Nadia nor I can. But those sorts of places cost a lot of money, and I’m barely hanging onto my apartment as it is.
I walk into the kitchen and grab a plate from the cupboard, then fish the dinner I bought for him out of the bag, lay it all out, and set the plate on a tray. Picking it up, I carry it all down the hall to his bedroom and step through the door to find him where I usually do – sitting in the chair in front of his window. At least he has a view of the street outside rather than the view of the alley I have from my bedroom window.
“Hey, Dad,” I call in.
He looks over, but I can see by the look on his face that he doesn’t recognize me. He still has more good days than bad days, but that gap is narrowing – and his bad days are getting worse. He gets frustrated when he can’t remember things. Angry. And sometimes, when his emotions boil over, he can get violent. He’ll scream, yell, and throw things. Nadia getting hit with a TV remote and me barely dodging a vase taught me to keep anything solid or heavy out of his reach.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my room?” he growls.
“Dad, it’s me. Berlin,” I tell him. “Your daughter.”
“Daughter…” he murmurs.
His voice trails off as his eyes take on a faraway look, as if there’s some faint glimmer of recognition – but then it’s gone, and he’s looking at me like he’s seeing a complete stranger for the first time. I bite back the sob that threatens to bubble from my throat and force the smile back onto my face. Careful to keep an eye on him, I walk over and set the tray down on the small table next to his chair.
“Your favorite,” I say as cheerily as I can. “Meatball sub with potato salad and wedge fries from Dimato’s.”
He looks down at the food, not recognizing it any more than he recognizes me in that moment. I stand there for a moment; my heart churning with emotion as I look at my father. I lost my mom when I was younger, and even though he’s sitting right in front of me, when he’s like this, I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost him too.
I know that watching your parents grow older and deteriorate is all part of the whole circle of life. But I’m only twenty-eight. I feel like I’m way too young for this to be happening – I’m neither ready nor prepared, and I’m certainly not equipped for this. And I definitely feel like my father is too young for this to be happening. But I’ve learned that Alzheimer’s doesn’t discriminate by age.
“Anyway,” I say. “Eat your dinner, Dad.”
I pick up the remote and turn on the TV, flipping it to ESPN to let him watch the highlight show. When he had all his wits about him, my dad was the biggest sports nut around. It’s because of him I took an interest in sports myself. Because of my dad, I’ve been a lifelong fan of the Mets, Jets, Islanders, and Knicks – though; I’m mostly into the Mets and Islanders. I’ve always enjoyed baseball and hockey the most.
A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I remember going to the games together. It makes me recall when my father was so there in the moment with me. When he was so present. It seems like it’s been forever since he’s been so – alive.
He looks up at me, a weak, watery grin on his face. “Hello. I’m Robert.”
I fight back the tears and put on a smile I’m sure looks horribly fake – not that he’ll know the difference.
“I’m Berlin,” I say softly. “I brought you something to eat.”
He looks down at the tray, and I see his face light up – and for a moment, I think he recognizes it and is coming back to me. My dad looks up and smiles.
“This smells delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had a meatball sub from Dimato’s before,” he says. “But I’ve heard good things.”
And just like that, the flickering hope inside of me is extinguished. As he digs into his meal happily, I turn and walk out of the room, and head back toward the kitchen where I ponder making some dinner for myself – but find I have
