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I Miss My Father’s Mind I Miss My Father’s Mind
(32 minutes later)
The day after my father died unexpectedly at a rehabilitation center in May, I went searching through my microcassettes for the tapes he’d sent me many years ago.The day after my father died unexpectedly at a rehabilitation center in May, I went searching through my microcassettes for the tapes he’d sent me many years ago.
One was easy to find. It was on top of all the others and was wrapped in orange graph paper. I hadn’t looked at it since 1995. I thought it was one of the recordings I’d asked him to make about his youth in Haifa, Palestine, and in Beirut, Lebanon. But this tape wasn’t about his life. It was a treatise on the mind that he’d composed one morning before setting out to his job as a real estate agent. And it was wrapped up in a diagram he’d drawn about the brain’s expansive ability to communicate.One was easy to find. It was on top of all the others and was wrapped in orange graph paper. I hadn’t looked at it since 1995. I thought it was one of the recordings I’d asked him to make about his youth in Haifa, Palestine, and in Beirut, Lebanon. But this tape wasn’t about his life. It was a treatise on the mind that he’d composed one morning before setting out to his job as a real estate agent. And it was wrapped up in a diagram he’d drawn about the brain’s expansive ability to communicate.
His death was shattering, but the tape, made two decades before dementia had seized his brain and sucked out all the knowledge that he’d accrued and all the rational thought that he’d prized, broke my heart.His death was shattering, but the tape, made two decades before dementia had seized his brain and sucked out all the knowledge that he’d accrued and all the rational thought that he’d prized, broke my heart.
I’ve come to believe that my father was one of the “hidden victims” of the coronavirus pandemic. Doctors suspect that the virus is connected, if indirectly, to a recent surge in Alzheimer’s and dementia deaths. “It’s one fall, and it sets everything off,” Nicole Fowler, an associate director at Indiana University’s Center for Aging Research, told The Wall Street Journal.I’ve come to believe that my father was one of the “hidden victims” of the coronavirus pandemic. Doctors suspect that the virus is connected, if indirectly, to a recent surge in Alzheimer’s and dementia deaths. “It’s one fall, and it sets everything off,” Nicole Fowler, an associate director at Indiana University’s Center for Aging Research, told The Wall Street Journal.
A fall. Yes. It started with a fall.A fall. Yes. It started with a fall.
On April 23 — a date I remember well because it’s my birthday — my sister called with the news that my 87-year-old father had fallen in the kitchen of his home. My mother was changing when she heard a thud. An ambulance took him to the hospital and she rushed to follow.On April 23 — a date I remember well because it’s my birthday — my sister called with the news that my 87-year-old father had fallen in the kitchen of his home. My mother was changing when she heard a thud. An ambulance took him to the hospital and she rushed to follow.
She knew he’d be completely confused and wouldn’t be able to tell the nurses his home address, let alone his medical history. For five years she had been looking after him, and in recent months this included bathing him, shaving him and making sure that he swallowed his food and not the napkin by the side of his plate.She knew he’d be completely confused and wouldn’t be able to tell the nurses his home address, let alone his medical history. For five years she had been looking after him, and in recent months this included bathing him, shaving him and making sure that he swallowed his food and not the napkin by the side of his plate.
At the hospital, my father underwent an operation on his leg and then was sent to a rehabilitation center to recover. Like many establishments of its kind, this center was not allowing visitors because of the coronavirus.At the hospital, my father underwent an operation on his leg and then was sent to a rehabilitation center to recover. Like many establishments of its kind, this center was not allowing visitors because of the coronavirus.
The day after he was admitted, he fell again and was taken to an emergency room once more. The nurses had told him not to get out of his bed, but he didn’t understand. The rehab center told us it wouldn’t restrain patients but agreed to keep a close eye on him.The day after he was admitted, he fell again and was taken to an emergency room once more. The nurses had told him not to get out of his bed, but he didn’t understand. The rehab center told us it wouldn’t restrain patients but agreed to keep a close eye on him.
We were able to see him on video calls. On the first, he was sitting up but my mother and sister spent several minutes trying to engage him. After much prodding to tell them “marhaba,” he said “hello” back, but little else. I wasn’t sure if he was very tired or just didn’t understand.We were able to see him on video calls. On the first, he was sitting up but my mother and sister spent several minutes trying to engage him. After much prodding to tell them “marhaba,” he said “hello” back, but little else. I wasn’t sure if he was very tired or just didn’t understand.
A few days later, I set up another call. This time, he was noticeably weaker and drowsier. We struggled to get him to acknowledge that he was seeing or hearing us. My mother tried. I tried. “Hi, Dad,” I said, smiling as broadly as I could and waving my arm madly. He kept moving the screen away and we had to plead, repeatedly, with the nurse to readjust it so that we weren’t talking to the ceiling.A few days later, I set up another call. This time, he was noticeably weaker and drowsier. We struggled to get him to acknowledge that he was seeing or hearing us. My mother tried. I tried. “Hi, Dad,” I said, smiling as broadly as I could and waving my arm madly. He kept moving the screen away and we had to plead, repeatedly, with the nurse to readjust it so that we weren’t talking to the ceiling.
After the call ended, my sister and mother said that they thought that he was trying to reach us through the screen and that’s why he kept grabbing at it. Maybe, I thought. Maybe.After the call ended, my sister and mother said that they thought that he was trying to reach us through the screen and that’s why he kept grabbing at it. Maybe, I thought. Maybe.
I was distraught. This was the worst situation for someone suffering from severe dementia: He was away from his routine, away from his home, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. I tried to imagine how to get him out, but I couldn’t think of an alternative that wouldn’t put my mother, who was also in her 80s, at risk of contracting the coronavirus.I was distraught. This was the worst situation for someone suffering from severe dementia: He was away from his routine, away from his home, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. I tried to imagine how to get him out, but I couldn’t think of an alternative that wouldn’t put my mother, who was also in her 80s, at risk of contracting the coronavirus.
The call with my father was on a Wednesday. Over the next few days, as far as we knew, all his vital signs were normal. But on Tuesday morning, my phone buzzed. It was my sister. I was busy at work and half-thought about not answering. But then I thought, what if — what if he’d fallen again — not thinking that it could be that final what if. I swiped the phone to take the call. I don’t even remember what my sister said other than “Dad has passed.”The call with my father was on a Wednesday. Over the next few days, as far as we knew, all his vital signs were normal. But on Tuesday morning, my phone buzzed. It was my sister. I was busy at work and half-thought about not answering. But then I thought, what if — what if he’d fallen again — not thinking that it could be that final what if. I swiped the phone to take the call. I don’t even remember what my sister said other than “Dad has passed.”
There wasn’t much to tell. The doctor had found him struggling to breathe. The paramedics were called. They came and “worked on him” for a while, but he never made it to the hospital; his heart stopped in the ambulance. We knew that he didn’t have the coronavirus because he had tested negative multiple times. The doctor told my sister that she believed it was a blood clot in his lungs. We could do a private autopsy but ultimately, what did it matter what the cause was? We opted not to.There wasn’t much to tell. The doctor had found him struggling to breathe. The paramedics were called. They came and “worked on him” for a while, but he never made it to the hospital; his heart stopped in the ambulance. We knew that he didn’t have the coronavirus because he had tested negative multiple times. The doctor told my sister that she believed it was a blood clot in his lungs. We could do a private autopsy but ultimately, what did it matter what the cause was? We opted not to.
We don’t know what happened that morning. We don’t know if he had any dying words. We don’t know if he ever understood where he was or why, or where his wife was or that his family still cared about him. We don’t know if his heart stopped because of a clot or underlying health issues (including congestive heart failure, which was diagnosed a few years earlier) or if those issues were exacerbated by the sudden change, the loneliness and isolation. I don’t think I am irrational in believing the latter.We don’t know what happened that morning. We don’t know if he had any dying words. We don’t know if he ever understood where he was or why, or where his wife was or that his family still cared about him. We don’t know if his heart stopped because of a clot or underlying health issues (including congestive heart failure, which was diagnosed a few years earlier) or if those issues were exacerbated by the sudden change, the loneliness and isolation. I don’t think I am irrational in believing the latter.
What we know and what we don’t know is a recurring theme in the tapes my father left me. He had been inspired to record the one about consciousness after reading a piece in Time magazine, titled “Glimpses of the Mind.”What we know and what we don’t know is a recurring theme in the tapes my father left me. He had been inspired to record the one about consciousness after reading a piece in Time magazine, titled “Glimpses of the Mind.”
“Oct. 5, 1995, at 7 a.m. I just completed reading this article,” he starts out saying. He quotes its conclusion: “It may be that scientists will eventually have to acknowledge the existence of something beyond their ken — something that might be described as the soul.” He continues: “My conclusion is that there is relation between the soul, the mind and the brain, and from there on, the brain and the body.”“Oct. 5, 1995, at 7 a.m. I just completed reading this article,” he starts out saying. He quotes its conclusion: “It may be that scientists will eventually have to acknowledge the existence of something beyond their ken — something that might be described as the soul.” He continues: “My conclusion is that there is relation between the soul, the mind and the brain, and from there on, the brain and the body.”
I’m not sure I believe in a soul, but I do think that the “essence” of who he was remained, even as his disease wore away at him.I’m not sure I believe in a soul, but I do think that the “essence” of who he was remained, even as his disease wore away at him.
In his other tapes, as he recounts some of the terrorist attacks that he witnessed as a young man in Haifa and then the civil war we lived through as a family in Lebanon, he remains inquisitive and searching. About the competing histories behind each conflict, he asks: “Truth? Whose truth? My truth, your truth?” In his other tapes, as he recounts some of the attacks that he witnessed as a young man in Haifa and then the civil war we lived through as a family in Lebanon, he remains inquisitive and searching. About the competing histories behind each conflict, he asks: “Truth? Whose truth? My truth, your truth?”
He was obsessed with the meanings of words and how easily they can be misunderstood and misconstrued. “Every word, depending on its place in a context, has a different meaning,” he said.He was obsessed with the meanings of words and how easily they can be misunderstood and misconstrued. “Every word, depending on its place in a context, has a different meaning,” he said.
Despite the horrors and injustices that he witnessed, he was always fair-minded. He taught us to not take anything on face value and to recognize that truth is a malleable beast. That might have been one of the reasons I became a journalist.Despite the horrors and injustices that he witnessed, he was always fair-minded. He taught us to not take anything on face value and to recognize that truth is a malleable beast. That might have been one of the reasons I became a journalist.
As my father sat in the rehab center, did he have moments of lucidity and ponder the meaning of his existence? Did he feel abandoned? Did his body just fail him? Or did his mind make the final call and decide to quit? In his younger days, he believed in the possibility of communicating through telepathy. Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t hear you.As my father sat in the rehab center, did he have moments of lucidity and ponder the meaning of his existence? Did he feel abandoned? Did his body just fail him? Or did his mind make the final call and decide to quit? In his younger days, he believed in the possibility of communicating through telepathy. Dad, I’m sorry I couldn’t hear you.
Nana Asfour is a Staff Editor in The New York Times Opinion section.Nana Asfour is a Staff Editor in The New York Times Opinion section.
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