Three in Tennessee testing

I don't know what is with us tonight. Matt cried during a touching story on ESPN, Tatum cried after bedtime and I've gone from trying to stifle my crying, to sobbing and now just some sad sniffling. I don't even know how it began with me, but I laid down to go to sleep and started thinking about my dad. I miss him. I had to get out of bed because I was afraid of waking up Matt.

The grieving process for people dealing with Alzheimer's disease is strange. The effects of the illness are horrific. I don't think the grieving process is the same for other illnesses. Not to say that any kind of grieving is easy - it's obviously not. It's just different with Alzheimer's. My dad is still alive and I can see him, but he's not the same. He doesn't have any idea who I am. Although he's met Tatum on several occassions, he doesn't actually know why we're calling him PePaw. He can't verbalize much. He was too young for this to happen. He had grandchildren to watch grow up. A wife to grow old with. Children who needed their dad to continue teaching them about car maintenance for crying out loud.

It just blows.

The thing that gives me comfort and also tears me apart is that he would have thought Tatum was hilarious. Absolutely hilarious. He would have laughed and laughed at and with her. She's so freakin funny and he would have thought so, too. I know that he would have wanted to hear her over the phone. I know that he would have loved visiting her. He would have loved how cute she is with the dogs. I hate that she'll never know how funny he was. I hate that she'll never get to wash a car with him. I hate that she won't get to "help" him in his garage like I used to. I hate it all. He would have gotten so tickled with her "conversing" that he would have had tears coming out of his eyes and not been able to breathe from laughing so hard. I can still hear his laughter.

The last time we saw him, he was sitting in one of the chairs at the nursing home. Tatum and I sat by him and she babbled some and he playfully grabbed at her little foot and kind of shook it. That was my dad. That was a moment for me to remember. He smiled and chuckled like his old self...even though it was only a fleeting moment. I needed that. I didn't care that he wasn't lucid. That was my moment to see him interact with my daughter, his granddaughter.

I normally keep fairly good control of my feelings. I'm strong most of the time. I don't know when the intense sadness and grief will come. It seems to come from nowhere. I hate that, too. The last time I remember it hitting so hard is when I left the mechanic's shop earlier this year. I hadn't really noticed when I dropped off the van, but when I went back to pick it up I couldn't miss it. I was writing the check and my eyes caught a glimpse of the mechanic's hands. They were my dad's hands...with a little bit of grease under the fingernails, the rough and calloused hands that could touch a hot engine without flinching, the smell of his shop, it smelled like my dad. He smelled like my dad. It was glorious, but I had to leave. As fast as possible. The same overwhelming feeling washed over me then like it did tonight. The feeling of knowing I'm about to lose control and won't be able to stifle the pain any longer...it's just going to come out. It did that day just like tonight. That day, I sobbed to the point of almost convulsing, all the way down Morganton Road, onto Foothills Mall Drive and then onto Broadway. It would have continued, I'm sure, but a funny thing happened with my mom, who was trying to follow me in her car. And by "trying" I mean she was going the wrong way. Perfect timing for comic relief. I don't have any comic relief tonight. Everyone is in bed. And here I sit.

Alzheimer's sucks.