I BLEEPED My Pants The Day My Father Said The BLEEP Word

The importance of communication in families

I can’t remember what the conversation was about, but I remember the day my father dropped the F-bomb. He was a short French Acadian man who had to look up a little when he talked to most other men.

It went something like this:

“There’s no BLEEPING way that’s going to happen. That BLEEPING BLEEP OF A BLEEP can take his BLEEPING BLEEP and shove it up his BLEEEEEEP.”

He was an old-fashioned man born in 1927, and he made it a point never to swear in front of women or children. So, the day he did it in front of me, I was FLOORED.

Sweet, right?

The day he started casually throwing the F-bomb around in front of me was the day I knew something was wrong.

I was 33 years old, and it was the year 2000. The Twin Towers were still standing tall. And I had never heard my father swear. Imagine!

Do you get the “bleeping” picture?

I was going to say that my jaw dropped, but it didn’t. I did the opposite. I pinched my lips together so that I wouldn’t laugh. I could feel that familiar tickle in my throat. It brought tears to my eyes, but I fought it back.

I Guess He Had Dementia

My father never went to the doctor. I mean, he NEVER went to the doctor. I’m pretty sure he was terrified of doctors, but I’ll never know for sure.

I am only GUESSING that he had some form of dementia, because he never got a formal diagnosis. Maybe it didn’t matter to my parents. Maybe neither understood the implications.

I’m pretty sure Mom just assumed Dad was getting grouchier in his old age

I’m no doctor. I have zero medical background other than the stint I did as a medical secretary in the 1980s. I had, however, a basic understanding of the signs of dementia:

• changes in personality (dropping lots of out-of-character “F” bombs)

• paranoia (accusing the neighbors of stealing)

• suspicions (hurling infidelity accusations at my mother)

Yes, there are many more signs of dementia, but these were the ones that told me something wasn’t right.

But nothing was said

I never suggested that Dad go to the doctor because I knew it was fruitless. I didn’t even suggest to Mom that I thought Dad was sick.

Maybe it didn’t matter. They just lived their lives, and I trusted them to do what was right for them.

And life went on (for a while)

It’s weird how there’s this whole VOID where life did go on. Maybe it was a year or two, I can’t say for sure.

I started having my own mental health and relationship problems around that time, so I suppose I was wrapped up in my own life at that time.

Have you experienced those voids where you can’t recall certain periods of your life?

The next thing I remember is discovering that Dad had cancer. I have no idea what kind of cancer, how long he’d had it, or where it had metastasized.

My best guess is prostate cancer

???

I really don’t know. I remember he had a lot of pain in his back. My mother had a ritual of rubbing Minard’s Liniment to help soothe the pain.

I suspect it was simply her touch that helped soothe him.

His skin turned an awful shade of grey. Not that there’s a GOOD shade of grey for skin.

And then he was in the hospital

Do you get the sense that there was a lot of secrecy going on? I could have asked, I suppose. Maybe I was too afraid of the answer.

Dad was in the hospital, and I got news that it “wasn’t good.”

I forgot about the “dementia”

If he had dementia, I’m sure it was still there. It didn’t take a backseat to cancer. But I didn’t see any more signs of it. Then again, I wasn’t with him a lot of the time.

He went from the hospital to home to die

I was standing outside their home when the ambulance arrived. They carried Dad through the house on a stretcher and placed him on a hospital bed we’d borrowed from the Red Cross.

I MUST have visited! Why is it a blank?

I know I visited my father between the time he came home and the day he died. But why can’t I remember it?

The last thing I remember is watching the palliative nurse bustle around the house. Dad had the death rattle, and later that day, I got the call.

He was gone.

Why Did I Write This?

I wanted to write about the signs of dementia in the elderly, but this turned into something else. It’s more about communication within families. And how important it is.

Also, this is bringing up a lot for me, and I don’t love it. I’m 57 now, and I’m still feeling blocked about so many things leading up to Dad’s death. Weird right?

Can we talk?

What untold gaps, secrets, miscommunications, or lapses have you had in your life?

I wish I had asked more questions. What about you?

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