I imagine that every year you look forward to celebrating your birthday. Even if as we get older we joke about not celebrating our special day or not wanting a big fuss made out of growing a year older, deep down, I’m sure you appreciate receiving well wishes. Birthdays are for celebrating, after all; they mean another year of life was lived and a new one is beginning.

Now imagine that you have no concept or recollection that it is a special day. When people wish you a happy birthday, your response is, “Me? You mean it’s my birthday?! Oh, thank you!” You pretend that you were joking and that you do indeed know it’s your birthday, but you really don’t. Were it not for people calling or visiting to wish you a happy birthday, it would be just another regular day for you.

Even as people celebrate your special day around you, you wonder just how old you are because you can’t remember. Eventually, you give up trying to remember for yourself and ask, “So, how old am I now?” Sixty-nine is the response and again you fake the situation, laughing while saying, “69 of course! I just wanted to see if you knew!” But, you really didn’t know.

This scenario is repeated throughout the day each time someone wishes you a happy birthday. It’s as if a reset button on your brain was pushed each time, causing the scene to play again. Only those around you have seen it before; you are seeing it for the first time, each time it plays.

My father’s birthday is today. He turns sixty-nine years old. This is his repeated scene. This is life with dementia. Happy birthday papi.

Photo: Aih/Flickr

As ironic as it seems, my dad’s dementia and memory loss is strangely helping us to reconnect. My father and I have never been very close – not in the way you normally think of a father-daughter relationship. We had no issues and did have a relationship, just not an emotionally close one.

My father was a typical, old-fashioned, Puerto Rican father. That means that while he was a provider and was there for us as a husband and father, he was never the go-to guy for talking about problems. He did not nurture, play, or goof around. He did provide: he worked hard, provided financially for our family and provided sound, logical advice. That’s who he was.

Because of the type of father he was, it resulted in me knowing I could count on him for things like financial advice, logical solutions, and life lessons, so to speak. I also knew I could not count on him for heart-to-heart talks about feelings or seek emotional support, something us girls often need. For that, I went to my mother.

However, my father was always a storyteller. I do remember hearing many stories about his childhood in Puerto Rico, his family, and music. As such, even with the disease of dementia affecting his mind, he still enjoys telling stories.

These days, my father’s stories may be full of inaccurate statements, inconsistencies, and mixed-up facts, but they are still interesting to hear. I may hear a particular anecdote five times within a span of ten minutes, but to me, it’s allowing for us to talk. I simply sit and listen. I respond at the appropriate cues, prompt him for more at certain points, and pretend I’m hearing him share the story for the first time. Sometimes I do let him know he’s told me before, but I give him only part of the story and let him finish the rest.

Hearing him tell his stories is how we now talk, connect, and spend time together. In a way, it’s helping us patch up the bond that was always loose. Ironic as it is, I feel closer to him now, than I ever did before.

Photo: hapal/Flickr