Daughter shares Dad’s story

By Maureen Kern

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Dad - Maurice VanHorbeck - was a husband to my mother, a father to his three children, a grandfather and great-grandfather and a friend to many - a man who functioned normally in all these roles. Yet, in the end, he had no memory of any of his life.

The family noticed some unusual behavior years before it became apparent he had a serious problem. We did not recognize it as a start of Alzheimer's disease. For example, whenever he left his home he insisted on returning by 2 p.m., making up excuses to accomplish this. At the time, we lost patience with him and thought he was being a stubborn old man.

Dad began sleeping a great deal. Obsessive behaviors crept in. Many times he mentioned he couldn't remember certain people or events. If our mother had to be gone, he became frightened, angry, even crying.

The time came to have a doctor diagnose him. I felt so badly for him when Dad was asked the president's name. He apologized because he could not remember. Dad needed to be in a nursing home with professional care.

The first few months there, he was sad and did not understand why he was separated from Mom. He begged us to take him home. Sometimes he reverted to his childhood and asked why his parents weren't coming. These days were some of the most difficult for our family.

The nurse told us that after we left, he soon settled down and did not remember we were there. Somehow that made me feel less guilty about leaving him.

Several months later, on another visit, I greeted him with “Hi, Dad, it's me.” He only stared at me. “I'm Maureen, your daughter.” Dad smiled an innocent, childlike smile and said nothing.

Almost two years after he entered his own world, Dad sat many hours in his room in a big, comfortable chair, and slept a great deal. He rarely recognized anyone and talked very little. Occasionally, he spoke in the Belgium language of his parents.

He needed help to walk. He wet his pants, messed his pants and had to be changed. He needed help to eat. He couldn't seem to concentrate.

Sometimes there were lighter moments. Once he delivered the mail to the residents, not knowing what went where. Occasionally, he would sing in Belgium and dance.

Mom, in declining health, came to live in the same nursing home. Dad no longer called her by name, but smiled at her as if he recognized her in some way.

Dad still looked amazingly well physically. But when we told him goodbye, there was little response. Many times, with eyes closed, he silently made the sign of the cross. I wondered if he was praying.

Some have called this disease the “long goodbye.” I felt guilty for thinking, “How soon will it end?” Dad has nothing to live for.

The last time I ever saw my father awake was different. As I walked into his room, he didn't even turn his head toward me, but his eyes were darting around. I knew it was the beginning of the end of the journey.

The next day, he collapsed and lapsed into a coma. For five days we were at his bedside.

The night before he died, April 19, 1998, a tear appeared in the corner of an eye. I knew it was a tear of joy because the journey was over. I whispered, “Dad, it's me” and “I love you.”

This is how I remember the heartache of Alzheimer's disease. The rest of my family shared equally all the sadness and heartache this disease brings.

Alzheimer's affects 5 million Americans, the cause is unknown and there is no cure. These statistics become a tragic reality when your loved one is affected.

The rest of my life will be haunted by the memory of my father looking up innocently, as I said, “Dad, it's me.”

Maureen Kern is a longtime Cedar Rapids resident. Comments: Mail to 2501 Kelly St. SW, Cedar Rapids, IA 52404