The Story of Dad…preface

As I wrestle with the fact my father is progressing rapidly through the dark stages of Alzheimer’s, I have a longing to write down his stories, one at a time…I hope you can join me and maybe learn something. I’m eager to see what I will learn as I retell them. He was not a perfect father, not by a long shot. Is there even such a thing other than our heavenly Father? But he taught me quite a bit about how to enjoy this life. He’s kind of, well,  my hero…

Remember, I will still be here, as long as you hold me in your memory. -Josh Groban

Lloyd Ray Loudermilk is still alive. Kicking? Not so much these days. Over the past several years his very own mind has coiled its tethers around his memory and squeezed it to the brink of suffocation. It was slow in the beginning; barely noticeable. At one time the forgetfulness was mistaken for normal behavior for someone of that age, until finally everyone agreed there was something seriously wrong.

First, stories told only a half hour previous were repeated to the same listener. Then the proper nouns starting showing up AWOL. Names of friends and places were replaced by “that guy” or “you know, where we did that thing” (long pause). Later, immediate family member names were no longer within his mental grasp. “You know, that girl” referring to his own daughter. As a listener you wanted to insert the missing pieces of the puzzle for him and there was a time you could easily find them. Like the corner pieces with two straight edges, they were simple to locate and insert into his narration to frame it back up for him. He would respond gratefully, “Right, my brother Don.” But then more and more phrases required this gap-filling exercise. As the menace began to squeeze tighter there were just too many missing pieces to understand the picture he was trying to create. You found yourself tired, giving up on the puzzle and taking over the conversation to update him on your own boring news. There was absolutely nothing recognizable about his dialogue. Or he may have asked you how his mother was doing and if you had seen her lately. Wanting to avoid hearing the pain in his voice by bringing up the fact she had passed away more than ten years prior you would respond with a lie that she was fine and would most likely come to visit soon.

Recently though it has progressed to the undeniable need for constant care. Alarms are set at entry doors to keep him from wandering down the street. Adult diapers are kept in ample supply. Continual reprimands are doled out to keep his fingers out of his mouth to save his remaining teeth. His smile reveals a big gap, missing a bottom front tooth he wiggled out little by little. Dementia has declared victory over the man, my father, whom I once perceived as invincible. And it will inevitably squeeze the actual life out of him one day. The palm readers say four to five years in their most generous prediction, giving us a pound of false hope with an ounce of dread. A day is coming when it will no longer be possible to call his wife and ask to speak to him and hear her say “Here, it’s for you! It’s your oldest son, Mark!” and then hear his ever-joyful voice say my name. But this darkness has at least reached down deep and stirred up a truck load of bright memories in my head, even if Dad is beyond recalling any of them himself.

These stories are not intended as some premature obituary or even a dull memoir of some random American baby boomer who drove a truck for a living, married three times and raised four suburban kids. That would be nothing extraordinary. What is intended is a record of some of the unbelievable events of his life, many of which I thankfully remember first hand. These are stories that are well worthy of being written down. These are stories that need to be duly remembered, even if by no one other than me.