For years we thought Papa was losing his hearing. He even went so far as to buy hearing aids, though he never wore them. “I can hear the conversations next door!”, he’d say, and no wonder. His hearing is fine. What he was losing was the ability to understand people.

So now when he follows up what we’ve said with “Pardon?”, we don’t talk louder, we just rephrase things into something more broken up and (hopefully) understandable.

This lack of understanding plays out in other ways. For one, his basic lack of awareness concerning his environment means that he’s forever making interruptions. Which is another thing that Alzheimer’s seems to have done: increased Papa’s desire to be the center of attention. Now, let me just back that up and say that this is not a new trait. He’s a wonderful guy, but he does like to be noticed.

What Alzheimer’s does is amplify eccentricities. Papa’s habit of collecting meaningless stuff? Times ten. In the last week he’s brought home from his walks a dirty tennis ball, an empty beer can, and the bottom half of a rake. We found the rake the next day, stashed in his closet.

But back to the interruptions….

Last night before dinner, Stephen said the prayer, and immediately afterwords Papa asked, “What was that speech all about?” Admittedly not as bad as when he decides to belt out a song right as we’re about to pray, but still a bit awkward.

Tonight after prayer, he said, “You want to hear a noise?” and clapped his hands loudly. “That’s a noise! Anytime you need someone, you know where to call.” He didn’t say anything more as dinnertime progressed, and I shared a little about my Archaeology class. I had just finished mentioning something about the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966, and the fact that over half of my classmates believe that Kennedy was President in ’66. No, I had added, Kennedy was killed in ’63. Johnson was president in ’66.

Then Papa interjected, “What 53 am I?”

Mom looked puzzled, and asked what he meant.

“Weren’t you just saying something about 53?”

“No, she was talking about 1963.”

“Oh.”

*pause*

“Geez, I must be 74 or something.”

“You’re 86, Dad.”

This is something that Papa does. If the conversation could possibly have any relevance to anything that he can remember, he’ll tell you. I don’t intend that to sound mean or bitter, just matter of fact. These are the little quirks they don’t tell you about in the Alzheimer’s brochures.

Take Papa’s service in the Aleutians, for example. He was there during the latter half of World War II and (thankfully) never saw combat. But he is convinced that his – wait for it – accordion playing is what kept the ‘Japs’ away. Kid you not. And he’ll bring it up anytime you mention…anything. Bikes? They rode bikes in the Aleutians. Guitars? They had guitars in the Aleutians. The weather? Gee it sure was cold in the Aleutians.

His army dress jacket hangs off the end of his bed, and he decided to put it on the other day. He then tracked every member of the family down and showed it off. You know, he looked pretty good in it. I think he thought so, too.

He wants us to put a chair on the front lawn so he can play his accordion and, he says, have people stop and listen. Now, we don’t exactly live in suburbia. Our road is a dead end and the only vehicle traffic is people going to and from work. We do, on the other hand, have a lot of walkers, runners, cyclists and kids that go by. And we wouldn’t mind him being out there but for the fear that he’d start soliciting passersby. Really, folks, he’s just a sweet old man with an accordion. Sweet and persistent.

We’ve prayed for him to retain his ability to play, and while his repertoire has diminished he hasn’t lost the touch just yet. We’ve come to the sad realization that, in some small way, he knows he’s losing his memory. Several years ago, back when the Alzheimer’s was yet unknown to us, he began having an obsession with memorizing, of all things, “Hey Diddle Diddle.”

Wow, that looks so wrong typed out.

Anyway, he memorized it and recited it any and every chance he had. He still does, sometimes. That’s another thing he’s done at the dinner table. He is also aware that he can’t remember all of the songs in his music books anymore. And to make up for it, he’s been practicing them daily. And if he can’t remember how to play them, he sings them.

He likes to show off his singing (are we surprised?) He brings over his big list of songs and says, to anyone nearby, “Pick out any one and I can sing it.” And he does. And when he’s feeling particularly – I don’t know – needy, he’ll sing over things. Over conversations, over the TV, over any music that might be playing.

Like I said, I don’t want to sound mean. So he likes attention, so what? Maybe that’s how he’s fighting this really crappy disease. Hey world, I’m still here. I still remember. I’m still me.