The Alligator Wrench

 

Alzheimer's or dementia is a harrowing thing for both the victim and their families and friends.

Watching a loved one's slide from innocent appearing forgetfulness into sometimes dangerous insanity will haunt a person. Although it's been nearly 10 years since Dad has been taken home to his Lord and Saviour, I still have dreams about the effect it had on him, and us. One of those dreams got me up early this morning and set me to write this.

My Dad's first real sign of dementia was him forgetting that his wife had died. It was alarming to me, and he had to live the news of Mom's death over and over. Mercifully, his memory somehow finally once again took hold of the fact and he settled back into her not being with us. I learned how to bring him around to the realization of her being gone in a gentle reminding way that stimulated his long term memory, rather than the shattering blow I first dealt him in my alarm of his loss of such a huge chunk of his life.

One of the most difficult areas to deal with was the onset of his loss of reasoning. In our assortment of farm tools was this utterly useless contraption called an alligator wrench. It simply had fixed jaws open like an alligator's mouth, and didn't grip anything, so it was relegated to a box of junk. An aspect of dementia that showed up in Dad was the propensity to go through and rearrange stuff. While going through junk, he must have moved the alligator wrench, and then couldn't remember what he did with it. Paranoia of people follows dementia like a spectre, and it preyed on Dad like a grey wolf. Often it takes on the attitude of suspicion of theft, and it did indeed with that alligator wrench. Dad became utterly convinced the farm fuel delivery man stole it. Nobody would give you two cents for an alligator wrench, much less risk going to jail for stealing one, yet that was the concrete conclusion Dad's besieged mind came to. He threatened to have the fuel guy thrown in jail. I had to gingerly mend fences with the fuel company to keep them delivering fuel. I would take Dad away when fuel was scheduled to be delivered. He was big, solidly built, and VERY strong, his body completely unaffected by what was happening to his brain, and I feared him becoming aggressive with someone he believed had wronged us and deserved justice.

No amount of reasoning with him would convince him of anything else than the fuel delivery man stole a valuable tool to the farm's operation. We had shiny chrome socket and wrench sets that made that alligator wrench look like rubbing sticks together versus a Bic lighter, but somehow its importance grew as Dad's memory faded.

I turned the shop over several times in frustration, desperation, and anxiety, trying to find that stupid alligator wrench, to no avail. I knew the fuel guy didn't take it, but it was gone. Whatever Dad did with it was beyond me, but he misplaced it and it wasn't to be found.

Sometimes you get a break, and I thought I got a BIG one when I saw on an upcoming farm auction bill that there was an alligator wrench! I was surprised anyone even bothered to type out the words for such a cheap, useless, worthless piece of junk as one of those, but I was ever so grateful, too. I was going to be there, and, if someone else was crazy enough to do so, he was going to run me up to 500 or even a thousand dollars, because it was the answer to my prayers and I was coming home with it, period. I didn't care if I got a single other thing out of the sale and if it took all day and a week's pay, I was coming home with that miserable alligator wrench and put an end to the enmity between Dad and the fuel company; especially and particularly the delivery man.

I ended up having to pay about 20 bucks for the stupid, rusty piece of junk, thorn in my side that its counterpart was, but it felt like shiny gold in my hand. I triumphantly brought it home and declared to Dad that I found his wrench and the fuel guy was free from blame.

"That's not my wrench".

How in the WORLD did he know that? They all look the same: rusty, S-shaped, with three holes in the center for chasing common threads (about all they were good for), and those stupid gaping jaws that wouldn't have the grip of a toothless dying alligator in its sleep.

"You bought it somewhere to get that divil off the hook. I know he took it and and that's not it".

Busted, wide open. Dead to rights.

"Dad, you've made such a giant mess for me over that stupid wrench I had to do something! The fuel guy didn't steal it--you lost it! It's here wherever you put it but I can't FIND it!" I wasn't apologizing for trying to exonerate an innocent man.

Some time went on, and I warily kept distance between Dad and the fuel guy, and promised the fuel company if he called the police, that I'd categorically deny any wrongdoing on the deliveryman's part.

One glorious, glorious day, as I knew was bound to happen, but just wouldn't when I wanted it to, I stumbled across that cursed rotten alligator wrench. I hated even the thought of one, but now I had the genuine article. I held it up beside the counterfeit--which I had held on to for dear life--and you couldn't tell them apart. There was no identity mark, gouge, tweak, or ANYTHING that made one look different from the other. They both had the same amount of rust, and neither had any wear because nobody ever used them long enough for them to suffer any. Now we had TWO of the useless pieces of junk, and the fuel guy was finally vindicated!

Once again, in what should be this time, absolutely ASSURED triumph, but still wondering what might actually happen, I told Dad I found that HELLISH wrench.

"That's it alright", he concurred, "but that dirty divil brought it back to keep from going to jail".

"NO!!! I found it where you put it!"

HOW he could have the sharpness to tell the two apart and yet still think the fuel guy wanted anything to do with something that should have been turned into eating utensils 30 or 40 years ago was beyond me, but that is dementia. It can be utterly selective and yet irreverently regardless at the same time.

Other things happened that weren't nearly as funny in hindsight, and resulted in me finally giving in and completely taking Dad's freedom away from him for his own safety by putting him in a retirement home, against his will at the time. Early on as he realized his mind was dimming and playing tricks on him he told me he needed to go, but by the time I put him in he was oblivious to the danger he presented to himself and others and was combatant. I HATED myself for condemning him to death away from his beloved farm, and struggled under an immense weight of guilt for doing so, but I had to to it and couldn't avoid it any more than the sun coming up tomorrow.

Whenever I hear of someone's family going down that road, my heart goes out to them. I don't know the twists and turns their route will take them, but I know the anguish and the destination.