Remembering My Dad

RIP Wayne

My dad died today. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a couple of years ago and had been living in a memory care facility for the past 20 months. It was a very slow decline over decades—and then a very sudden end. I was with him on Saturday and had no inkling he only had days left. He had declined rapidly in the past few weeks, and then on Monday he took a real turn. They transferred him to a hospice facility today and he died a few hours later.

I’m on a train up to Boston as I write this. I told my sister to let me know when it looked like he only had a couple of days left and I’d come back up. She told me it was time this afternoon and I bought a train ticket; before the train left he was gone. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there with him—and with my mom and sister—when he passed. I’m glad that I got to spend time with him a few days ago. And glad that he is at peace. Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease—as hard on the family as on the patient. He was not well physically, either, and had very little quality of life. It was time.

I have such fond memories of him. Playing catch or one-on-one. Jumping the waves and boogie boarding at the Outer Banks. Staying up late to watch Duke in the Final Four. Enjoying a bottle of wine or a piña colada.

He loved baseball, especially the Boston Red Sox. We made an annual pilgrimage to Fenway Park when I was a kid, rooting on Roger Clemens and Pedro Martinez. A few years we went down to Florida for Spring Training. We cried together on the phone in 2004 when the Sox finally won the World Series. When the Cincinnati Reds made it to the World Series in 1990, he stood in line for hours to get us tickets. He wanted to make sure I saw all the old ballparks he loved before they were torn down, so we took trips to Detroit and Cleveland and Chicago to see games. Just the two of us. Memories I will always cherish.

I got my love of playing cards from him and his parents. I remember long games late into the night of hearts and spades and cribbage. He played some bridge in college, and was exceedingly proud of my bridge career. But I never got him to learn. I think that by the time I tried, the dementia was setting in and he knew he wasn’t up for it.

I also got my love of theater and the arts from him. He took me to my first musical—Les Miz—when I was about ten. I was enthralled. He was always up for a show or a concert, always eager for opportunities to spend time as a family. He loved music, particularly from the 60s. I went to all of my first concerts with him: the Beach Boys at Riverfront Stadium; the Doobie Brothers; Peter, Paul and Mary. More recently, he loved seeing James Taylor play at Fenway Park.

I’ve been mourning him for some time—the man I knew and loved and respected hasn’t been with us for years. It has been really painful to watch this erudite, cultured, caring man become lost to this disease. I lived with him and my mom on Cape Cod for about 18 months during Covid. Every morning he asked me, “Did you sleep?” That’s about all he was capable of. A far cry from the philosophical and theological discussions we enjoyed years ago.

He had his faults and foibles and eccentricities, but he really was an incredible father and a really good and decent man. I’m glad that his suffering is over. But I will really miss him.