[originally posted August 26 2011, 7:10 AM]
Some days it's a scarce commodity. Or misplaced.
My 84 year-old father is confident he can drive just fine, thank you. He may be right. In the daytime, in good weather, on a familiar road shared by responsible, attentive, sober fellow drivers.
But he has Alzheimer's Disease, and I don't feel confident about his safety or the public safety.
Neither of us are confident that he will remember where he hid that last wad of cash he withdrew from the bank.
He's generally a quite agreeable person, attuned to the comfort of others. I'm losing confidence that he will go along with his hired care-giver when they suggest that it may be too slick or icy this winter when he's hell-bent on taking a walk to "clear his head".
I'm confident that today will be one of the most challenging days of my life. My brother and sister and I will spend the day with Dad, telling him about his fairly new diagnosis, what it means, how much we love him and care about his safety, and about the difficult decision we've been wrestling with for months. This will be the last day he will live in the house where He spent the last 60 years. It is moving day. He doesn't know yet. On the sage advice of geriatrician colleagues, we decided to have one difficult conversation, rather than repeat a series of misremembered painful ones.
I'm not completely confident this is the right decision. It's permeated with ambiguity.
Will this day be filled with tears, tenderness, integrity, and loving-kindness? I'm confident of that.