Living Where My Feet Are Planted

Last August my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

… Wow that was hard to type.

I’ve been trying to figure out a way to put my millions of thoughts about his diagnosis into words, but I never know where to begin. This type of diagnosis is a real kicker for someone who suffers from catastrophic anxiety because no one can tell me when we are going to lose my father.

And I use the word lose roughly, since I’m terrified his mind will go before the rest of him.

My heart aches as I type these words, my fingers tremble wanting to erase every bit of this truth so I can pretend it’s not real.

But it is.

My Dad has Alzheimer’s and I am terrified of the unknown.

My Fear of the Unknown

I am not quite sure when I started fearing the unknown so deeply that it consumes me from within. It’s a trait I wish would fade with age instead of becoming harder to control.

Sometimes I think it’s a tendency I’ve carried along since some childhood incident where I realized bad things can happen fast and furiously – so obviously the future can be scary. Then I consider that maybe it developed quietly, growing harder to handle with each life-changing or shocking moment along the way.

I know so many people who can enjoy their life as it unfolds instead of writing out their future with a catastrophic ending like I have found myself doing. I envy the way their inner thoughts don’t immediately consider the worst-case scenario.

My mom says I like to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich. If I cannot see the bad problem or scary truth, then it can’t see me.

Difficult conversations, uncomfortable confrontations, the reality of the world or politics – whatever it may be, she’s right. If I don’t want to address the elephant in the room, I’m going to hide my eyes (or hide in a closet).

When the Monster Under the Bed Was Real

In the beginning of 2020, when the world started panic-buying toilet paper and water, I hid my eyes and refused to believe there could possibly be a virus-driven pandemic on the horizon.

And then three weeks after the world shut down, I saw the actual monster under my bed that I told myself wasn’t real.

I became the seventh person diagnosed with Covid in my town. I spent 50 days in home isolation and months fighting long Covid symptoms.

For more than a year, I wanted to argue with anyone who said the world would never be the same. I never had enough courage to tell them what my therapist was telling me: “Catastrophic thinking about the future is ruining your chance at enjoying your life around you.”

For six years I have been a work in progress – practicing how to pull my head out of the sand and face what is around me.

While I stare at a scary truth or consider the possibility of something that makes me nervous, I also have to remind myself not to pick up a pen and write the story of the worst-case scenario.

I can’t even consider the happy ending for fear of disappointment when it doesn’t come true.

I’m just supposed to live where my feet are planted – an easy-to-visualize life motto my sister recently shared with me.

It sounds so simple.

It isn’t.

My Dad Has Alzheimer’s

My Dad’s diagnosis is perhaps the biggest challenge I have ever faced when it comes to fearing the unknown.

I can’t hide from it. My family talks about it often and as needed. There is always an MRI or a doctor’s appointment, conversations about his biweekly treatments, or just general questions about his condition.

But we are lucky.

He is doing WELL.

The majority of people would never know he has Alzheimer’s if he didn’t tell them because he hasn’t changed.

Yet.

And there it is.

That tiny word.

Yet.

It’s amazing how three letters can take everything that is true about my Dad right now and replace it with everything I’m afraid might be true someday.

Because the truth is that my Dad is doing well right now.

He’s still himself right now.

And this summer, my Dad came to Cape Cod.

Living Where My Feet Are Planted

My family takes an annual trip to Cape Cod, but my Dad hasn’t been able to join us since 2019. Other health issues have kept him away over the years—Lyme Disease preventing him from enjoying the sun and crumbling vertebrae making long car rides difficult.

But this year, he came.

And maybe before his diagnosis I wouldn’t have understood just how much those words could mean.

My Dad came to Cape Cod.

There were so many moments on Cape Cod when I caught myself watching my Dad.

I watched him pitch a softball to Ailey and her cousins on the beach. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him play a game like that with them before. His neck and back are too delicate to be throwing balls around, but there he was—in the middle of their beach game.

My Dad swam in the ocean.

We took a long walk on the beach and talked about how happy he was that he came. He told me he couldn’t imagine the anxiety and loneliness he would have felt if he stayed home. We talked about how scary it can be to be alone and how happy he was to be surrounded by all of us.

And then we laughed about the seagulls on their “private beach” and pointed out clouds that looked like Goofy and a monkey.

He took long morning walks to the boat yard with his kids, up and down the hills. And when his legs started to go numb, he let me help him. He let me hold his hand and support him.

He stayed up late on the deck laughing with us about nonsense. He went shopping in Provincetown. He went to happy hour at the Chatham Squire.

He did it all.

And maybe that’s what I need to remember when my mind starts trying to take me somewhere we haven’t gone yet.

I wish I could say I’ve figured out how not to be afraid of what comes next. I haven’t.

I want to know what next summer looks like. I want someone to tell me what next year looks like and five years from now. I want a timeline so I can prepare myself for whatever is coming.

But no one can give me one.

Maybe living where my feet are planted means accepting that I don’t get to know.

Maybe it means trying not to grieve tomorrow while I’m living today.

Because while I’ve spent so much time being terrified of all the things Alzheimer’s might someday take away from my Dad, last week I watched him live.

He pitched a softball.

He swam in the ocean.

He walked on the beach.

He laughed with his family.

He was there.

And so was I.

I don’t know what next August will look like. My mind desperately wants to write that story before we get there.

I’m trying not to let it.

Last week, my Dad was on Cape Cod.

He did it all.

And for right now, that’s where I’m keeping my feet planted.