Despicable

When care feels like control—and kindness is mistaken for harm

Frank has a very adversarial relationship with podiatrists. He had one years ago that he adored, but he retired. Since then, it’s been a series of trial and error trying to find one he’s happy with. I’m not sure what the problem is, but he doesn’t believe there’s much need for care for his feet. Being a diabetic, his foot health is paramount.

I’ve even tried taking him to a salon to get a pedicure. Miraculously, he enjoyed it. The problem is twofold. First, it’s hard for him to get up into the chair—usually a step or two—and I’m always afraid he’ll fall. His balance is unsteady, and the nail technicians, while well-meaning, are not particularly good at helping the elderly in this task.

The second reason is that he doesn’t quite understand that this is not a local barbershop from the old days where men gathered, talked, laughed, and told stories. Not meaning harm, he cracks jokes, tries to talk to people—it’s embarrassing, and the women’s looks make sure I know how they don’t appreciate his antics.

He also complained that all of the podiatrists were a distance away and didn’t like the long drives. Finally, I recalled that both my parents had podiatrists who came to the house in Florida. I did some research and found that this was also available in New Jersey with no out-of-pocket expense—something I knew would please Frank. Medicare bore the cost, and he had no reason to object.

I told him about this service, and he was on board. His first visit went beautifully. Frank was pleased with the work the doctor performed, and even more pleased that he didn’t have to go to yet another appointment. Going out is not something we do often other than doctor appointments and the local CVS to pick up prescriptions.

When I scheduled the first appointment, they informed me they would call me again in approximately two months. When that time came, I scheduled another visit. After getting home, I told him about the appointment. His reaction was, “Great!” No big deal. It was a Monday, and the appointment was on Thursday. I made a mental note to remind him again on Wednesday, which I did, and was met with the same enthusiastic response.

Thursday morning I sent him a text reminding him once again that the doctor was coming between 11:30 AM and 1:30 PM. The response I received was very unsettling:

“I don’t recall asking you to contract a foot doctor for me… To say I’m pissed is beyond all… what you did without my full approval is highly despicable!”

I was shocked. He’s not usually this way with me. As always, my stomach tightened, my breathing became shallow, my heart pounded, and my anxiety went through the roof. What I heard was not confusion or even hesitation. Something underneath it was sharp, but mostly I detected fear. His text came across as an accusation, as if I’d done something to deliberately supersede him.

My response was less than ideal, but it was real:

“I told you on Monday. You’re scheduled every two months. I don’t need your nastiness. I’m only trying to help you.”

I told him twice, as I always do before a doctor’s appointment, but said it more sharply than I meant to.

This all occurred while I was at work teaching. Students don’t understand that teachers have their own lives and get upset from time to time. I did everything I could not to break down in front of them, but as soon as the period was over, I cried inconsolably. My teacher friends reassured me that it was the disease talking to me and not the real him. It didn’t matter.

I realize that beneath it all is his fear of not being in control of his life. I get that. From time to time, when he has a delusion or misidentification and realizes it, he becomes very troubled and asks, “What’s happening to my mind?” When that occurs, I usually just tell him, “You’re just confused, babe. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe with me.” That usually soothes him.

As much as I cognitively understand it, my heart was broken. I was being judged inside a reality that won’t hold, but I was still angry at how he spoke to me.

I canceled the appointment. Not being able to survive the embarrassment it might cause for the doctor or the torment it would bring Lou Ann, his aide, it was the only sensible thing to do. The agency was very kind when I explained what transpired and told me to call when he’s ready.

Shortly afterward, he sent another text repeating his indignance—but apologized if it upset me. Too late. In my mind, the damage was done. While I didn’t want it to linger, I couldn’t release yet another Alzheimer’s moment. It wounded me deeply.

As expected, I came home to his open arms and a happy, smiling face. I was quiet and non-responsive. As always—he knows me so well—he asked what was wrong. I told him I had a terrible day at work and was exhausted. It wasn’t really a lie.

I retired earlier than usual that evening. I couldn’t bear being in his presence the way I was feeling—like a wounded animal holding its tormentor responsible. It’s evenings like this that memory care may be the best solution. Still, I know it’s not time yet.

The house went quiet. He was fine, as if nothing had happened. Dementia afforded him the ability to forget.

But that evening, it didn’t for me.