TOO MUCH BIRTHDAY

Today is my dad's 83rd birthday. Last night we had a very fine and festive dinner party for him at Bickford Memory Care. A huge bouquet of balloons was delivered at noon from his grandchildren, a gorgeous basket of edible fruit flowers arrived at 4:00 from my brother and his wife, a feast of Italian food and a chocolate birthday cake were delivered at 5:00. My father was showered and shaved, wearing a new white shirt, grey cardigan, and designer striped pajama pants. He was clutching a birthday card that had been colored and signed by all nine residents of his Bickford family. He kept asking one question: Is someone getting married?

I've read a lot of good books on AD: DYING WITH OPEN EYES, THE 36 HOUR DAY, THE GIFTS OF PASSAGE, DEMENTIA CAREGIVERS TELL THEIR STORIES, THE ALZHEIMERS PLAYBOOK, and THE STORY OF FORGETTING are among my favorites. Most of them say, regarding birthday parties for guys in the final stage of the disease, DON'T GO THERE. Dear God, they were right.

Dinner was delicious and the other residents were joyful. They loved everything, food with flavor, the hubbub in the dining room, Sally, the director at Bickford joined us, and two CNA's, who weren't even scheduled to work, showed up to the party. My husband was popping corks of sparkling apple cider, pretending it was champagne, and pouring it into cute plastic glasses while toasting to the happy occasion of Dad's 83rd year. Meanwhile, my father slipped back into his alter ego "Captain Jack" of the Second to None WWII regiment, proclaiming everyone was a soldier and we needed to shoot someone.

The filters were off. The "pilot's" watch we bought him at Kohl's made no sense. Its glowing light did not amuse; the Velcro fastener was too freaky. The two Matchbox airplanes with real spinning propellers did not please. The John Wayne DVD's flopped. He pulled at the sleeves of his sweater, questioned the fit of his pants, and bemoaned the fresh mostaccoli stain on the front of his shirt. Captain Jack did not blow out his candles; he ate chocolate cake and two scoops of butter pecan ice cream silently with a wrinkle in his brow.

I'm not going to beat myself up over this. I know we tried to bring some joy and a little variety to my dad's life in LaLaLand. The rest of us had a good time, and as I wheeled him back to his room for our nightly routine of teeth-brushing, face-washing, goodbye-saying, the party lingered on at one of the tables in the dining room. Another favorite resident of mine, Isabelle, was still calling out happy birthday wishes and complimenting the food. My husband and I would have a good laugh on the drive home over Dad's dismissal of our gifts and confusion over the whole damn evening. I'd choke back a few tears, shake my head over what just happened, and question why I put my father through such an ordeal. Ah, well.

I love birthdays. When AJ and Allison were young, I'd send out themed invitations and their parties always started at the exact moment of their births - 10:59 & 8:43 - both brunch occasions. My favorite pictures are toothy grins over the glow of trick candles on ice cream cakes from Baskin-Robbins. Champagne was served to adults, activity centers were set up for kids, music played, balloons popped, and people partied for hours. Inevitably, by afternoon, someone cried. New toys, games, and books were scattered over the floor, streamers were falling from the ceiling, and the carpet would need steam cleaning. TOO MUCH BIRTHDAY, we'd say, and it was true.

Today is my dad's 83rd birthday. Last night we had a party. He thought somebody was getting married and someone should be shot. It was all a little too much. The ribbons got tangled and we could not untie them. Happy Birthday, Pop. You had 82 pretty good years.