Dementia Exposed:The Beginning
I recognized my brother’s number on my Caller ID and knew this would not be a pleasant call.
The only time my relatives call is when they need my help during an emergency.
“Someone’s in the hospital or worse” I quickly told myself, recalling the last time Dave called was when Dad’s defibrillator went off. The ambulance rushed our 84 year old father to the ER and things looked bleak for a while. Following a few days of tests, Dad bounced back, became impatient within the confines of the hospital, and was released to return home.
However, today’s emergency turned out not to be medically related, or at least it didn’t seem so at first.
“I just got a called from the bank manager. Dad’s in the bank lobby, and causing a stir, claiming the bank is stealing his money. The manager asked me to come in and sort things out. Can you meet me there?”
It was barely 9AM, so Dad must have appeared just as the bank was opening. It would take me 30 minutes to get to Monterey. I promised Dave I was on my way. I arrived and found Dad seated at the manager’s desk, looking dapper, as always, with my brother and the manager making small talk, waiting for me. The scene looked calm enough, but within a minute of my sitting down to join them, the mis-communication and confusion became obvious.
Dad produced a series of outdated bank statement, listing CDs he had owned during previous years, while the bank manager printed out current statements, clearly showing that Dad had cashed in several CDs, transferring cash to his checking account. The records indicated that month after month, Dad had written checks to pay for the house, utilities, my stepmother’s ever increasing medical bills and all of the expenses incurred during day to day living.
Dad appeared to have forgotten many of these transactions, yet he and he alone, had written all the checks. His distinctive signature appeared at the bottom of each check photocopy the manager produce.
Our stepmother, waiting at home, was clearly no help in unraveling the mystery of their finances. They were of the generational mindset that the wife takes care of the home and the husband handles all the money. Although twenty years Dad’s junior, Sandra took no responsibility for accounting or management. As long as there was money for her to have her hair and nails done each week, she was content. Up until now, this arrangement had appeared to work well for them.
In sorting through the current year’s bank statements, the manager, my brother, and I, discovered that Dad had written several large five and six figure checks to pay for his wife’s continuing cancer care. Diagnosed two years ago for the treatment of malignant melanoma, at the age of 62, she was too young for Medicare, and Dad had never purchased health insurance for her prior to her diagnosis.
Dad was “old school” when it came to bills. If the hospital sent him an invoice for $50,000, he took out the checkbook and paid the bill, no questions asked. Perhaps he was oblivious to the modern concept of negotiating with hospitals to enter into a structured payment agreement. Having spent a lifetime of being financially sound, he may have felt too proud to even inquire about this option.
Now the fuzzy picture of Dad’s accusations of the bank came into focus. Dad was cashing in CDs to pay for his wife’s medical care, yet the expenses piled up so quickly he became overwhelmed and confused.
The manager was very polite in unraveling Dad’s accounting method, and Dad was quick to thank him, standing to shake his hand, as our impromptu, yet informative meeting concluded.
“No problem” the manager said as my brother and I echoed our thanks. “We see this problem of forgetfulness among our senior customers, here at the bank, all the time. Don’t be surprised if this issue comes up again.”
My brother and I looked at each other, somewhat puzzled by the entire experience. Dad, forgetful? Well yes, come to think of it, he had always been somewhat forgetful, certainly when it came to mundane things like remembering our birthdays or the names of our spouses, but he had always been that way for as long as we could remember. It was simply that some details were not important to him, or so we thought.
The bank manager’s words rang true. Although Dad left the meeting in a jovial mood, and expressed relief to learn that the bank he trusted was not stealing his money after all, the very next morning he called, and, with an urgent tone to his voice, asked me to come over to his house.
I arrived around 9 AM, once again, and Dad opened the front door with a somber look on his face. He gestured for me to follow him into his study, then closed the door behind us.
“I don’t want to worry Sandra with this” he said in a hoarse whisper, “but I have been going through our statements and it appears that the bank is stealing our money! I plan to go down there this morning and get to the bottom of this! I will demand an explanation from the manager! Can you come along with me?”
As I saw the combination of fear, panic and anger in his eyes, a surreal feeling of déjà vu came over me like a slow rolling wave. I glanced down at Dad’s desk and saw a disarray of paperwork.
I attempted to reason with him. “Dad, Dave, you and I and the bank manager discussed all of this yesterday.
He looked at me incredulously, obviously hurt.
“What are you talking about? I haven’t seen your brother for a week and I haven’t been down to the bank since last month! I should have known better than to call you!”
And I should have known that any phone call from my family would result in impending heartache.
An excerpt from Where the Red Tailed Hawk Flies: Daddy Has Dementia
Copyright © 2010 by Gabriella Graham/Red Tailed Hawk Publishing/All rights reserved.
I recognized my brother’s number on my Caller ID and knew this would not be a pleasant call.
The only time my relatives call is when they need my help during an emergency.
“Someone’s in the hospital or worse” I quickly told myself, recalling the last time Dave called was when Dad’s defibrillator went off. The ambulance rushed our 84 year old father to the ER and things looked bleak for a while. Following a few days of tests, Dad bounced back, became impatient within the confines of the hospital, and was released to return home.
However, today’s emergency turned out not to be medically related, or at least it didn’t seem so at first.
“I just got a called from the bank manager. Dad’s in the bank lobby, and causing a stir, claiming the bank is stealing his money. The manager asked me to come in and sort things out. Can you meet me there?”
It was barely 9AM, so Dad must have appeared just as the bank was opening. It would take me 30 minutes to get to Monterey. I promised Dave I was on my way. I arrived and found Dad seated at the manager’s desk, looking dapper, as always, with my brother and the manager making small talk, waiting for me. The scene looked calm enough, but within a minute of my sitting down to join them, the mis-communication and confusion became obvious.
Dad produced a series of outdated bank statement, listing CDs he had owned during previous years, while the bank manager printed out current statements, clearly showing that Dad had cashed in several CDs, transferring cash to his checking account. The records indicated that month after month, Dad had written checks to pay for the house, utilities, my stepmother’s ever increasing medical bills and all of the expenses incurred during day to day living.
Dad appeared to have forgotten many of these transactions, yet he and he alone, had written all the checks. His distinctive signature appeared at the bottom of each check photocopy the manager produce.
Our stepmother, waiting at home, was clearly no help in unraveling the mystery of their finances. They were of the generational mindset that the wife takes care of the home and the husband handles all the money. Although twenty years Dad’s junior, Sandra took no responsibility for accounting or management. As long as there was money for her to have her hair and nails done each week, she was content. Up until now, this arrangement had appeared to work well for them.
In sorting through the current year’s bank statements, the manager, my brother, and I, discovered that Dad had written several large five and six figure checks to pay for his wife’s continuing cancer care. Diagnosed two years ago for the treatment of malignant melanoma, at the age of 62, she was too young for Medicare, and Dad had never purchased health insurance for her prior to her diagnosis.
Dad was “old school” when it came to bills. If the hospital sent him an invoice for $50,000, he took out the checkbook and paid the bill, no questions asked. Perhaps he was oblivious to the modern concept of negotiating with hospitals to enter into a structured payment agreement. Having spent a lifetime of being financially sound, he may have felt too proud to even inquire about this option.
Now the fuzzy picture of Dad’s accusations of the bank came into focus. Dad was cashing in CDs to pay for his wife’s medical care, yet the expenses piled up so quickly he became overwhelmed and confused.
The manager was very polite in unraveling Dad’s accounting method, and Dad was quick to thank him, standing to shake his hand, as our impromptu, yet informative meeting concluded.
“No problem” the manager said as my brother and I echoed our thanks. “We see this problem of forgetfulness among our senior customers, here at the bank, all the time. Don’t be surprised if this issue comes up again.”
My brother and I looked at each other, somewhat puzzled by the entire experience. Dad, forgetful? Well yes, come to think of it, he had always been somewhat forgetful, certainly when it came to mundane things like remembering our birthdays or the names of our spouses, but he had always been that way for as long as we could remember. It was simply that some details were not important to him, or so we thought.
The bank manager’s words rang true. Although Dad left the meeting in a jovial mood, and expressed relief to learn that the bank he trusted was not stealing his money after all, the very next morning he called, and, with an urgent tone to his voice, asked me to come over to his house.
I arrived around 9 AM, once again, and Dad opened the front door with a somber look on his face. He gestured for me to follow him into his study, then closed the door behind us.
“I don’t want to worry Sandra with this” he said in a hoarse whisper, “but I have been going through our statements and it appears that the bank is stealing our money! I plan to go down there this morning and get to the bottom of this! I will demand an explanation from the manager! Can you come along with me?”
As I saw the combination of fear, panic and anger in his eyes, a surreal feeling of déjà vu came over me like a slow rolling wave. I glanced down at Dad’s desk and saw a disarray of paperwork.
I attempted to reason with him. “Dad, Dave, you and I and the bank manager discussed all of this yesterday.
He looked at me incredulously, obviously hurt.
“What are you talking about? I haven’t seen your brother for a week and I haven’t been down to the bank since last month! I should have known better than to call you!”
And I should have known that any phone call from my family would result in impending heartache.
An excerpt from Where the Red Tailed Hawk Flies: Daddy Has Dementia
Copyright © 2010 by Gabriella Graham/Red Tailed Hawk Publishing/All rights reserved.
Dunes at Del Monte Beach photo'd by GG