MARY BETZ tells of her unexpected Lenten journey accompanying her father with Alzheimer’s to his new home.

28 February: I am thinking about what to “do” for Lent, when my brother phones me from Chicago: “Dad’s had a bad fall. The doctors say he needs fulltime care. Can you come?” Lenten pondering ends and the “doing” begins.

1 March (Ash Wednesday): I wing my way across the Pacific and wonder how Dad will be. He gives me a wide smile when I come in the door but doesn’t get up from his chair. When I hug him I feel how thin he is, see the wounds on his head and the bruises on his arms.

2 March: Dad’s boarder is not happy, but must move out since I need to move in to care for Dad. There is also an issue with the water heater — it’s heavily rusted at the bottom and is sitting in a big pool of water. This afternoon I tell Dad I’ll be taking him for a scan to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion from his fall, and he says: “What fall? I didn’t fall!” Later I give him some New Zealand chocolates and he eats almost the whole bag. When l realise he is not going to stop, I swoop away the bag and say: “Let’s save some for tomorrow.”

4 March: I rent a rug shampooer and Dad’s room gets a going-over: it looks and smells only marginally better. I cook, clean floors, do six loads of laundry and two bed changes, and help Dad with showering and dressing. He asks me to give him a shave — a first for me. I find no power of attorney document in Dad’s files. Dad can’t sign one now because of his mental impairment — my brother has to apply to the court for guardianship. A social worker arrives to investigate possible elder abuse because of Dad’s injuries.

6 March: I calm the neighbours who think the boarder is stealing stuff as he moves his things out. He uses the F-word and yells to Dad: “I’m homeless now because of her. She’s going to take all your money and put you in a home.” Dad’s deafness means he doesn’t hear the gibe. His double incontinence is worse — the bed, carpet, floors, two pairs of his shoes and Dad himself must be cleaned. I get nauseous and lose my appetite. I am so not cut out for caregiving. I put out Dad’s medications and ask him if he wants to fill his weekly box. He looks at them and goes back to bed: he has forgotten what they are.

7 March: I tell Dad that the communion minister is here and he corrects me: “He’s not a communion minister, he’s a Eucharistic minister.” Vatican II lives! Guillermina, Dad’s part-time caregiver, is back from holiday. She happily chats with her “Mr William” while I begin a bewildering round of lawyer and bank appointments, shop for old-age needs and begin to contact care facilities. Later, Dad’s GP listens respectfully while Dad tells him he never falls, is occasionally incontinent, is a bit forgetful but can manage fine on his own. Dad is told gently but firmly that he needs 24/7 care.

8 March: Dad wanders around the house peering at photos as if wondering who everyone is. I bring him his Ninetieth Birthday Book about his life. He tells me stories about high school shenanigans and navy buddies.

9 March: The vacuum cleaner packs it in, but I clean its ancient filters and revive it. I sift the mail so Dad doesn’t bin the financial statements. Taxes are due soon and I groan at the years of junk mail mixed with possibly important stuff covering his closet floor and stacked on every surface in his study. With an old flash of elegance, Dad asks: “Shall we have dinner in the dining room tonight?” So I set the table there instead of in the kitchen. When I call him into the dining room for dinner, he says: “Oh, are we having company?”

14 March: Dad’s medic alarm goes off eight times in the night. I finally realise the phone is out and look outside to check the weather: gently-falling snow is transforming the street, houses and gardens into a fairyland.

15 March: At midnight I hear a clatter in the kitchen. Dad is in his undies, bent over my newly-baked blueberry pie scooping big spoonfuls into his mouth. “That must be good,” I say, and he grins like a kid. This morning I shovel snow. Dad’s reclusive Muslim neighbour comes over to say: “Don’t catch cold” and gently pulls my coat hood onto my head.

29 March: After visiting six assisted care facilities, I find one designed and run especially for residents with dementia. I notice the forsythia and hyacinths are blooming. When I wake Dad for dinner, he asks if it is breakfast. But he always says “Thank you”.

31 March: Dad likes the nurse who assesses him for assisted care. She is African-American like the district nurse who comes each week. She makes both of us laugh and smile. I am glad because I am so caught up in chores that it is hard to remember to smile. I remind Dad that I will only be there until shortly after Easter and he laughs. “What’s so funny?” I ask. Says he: “Then you won’t be here to tell me what to do!”

5 April: Dad swears when I explain about going into care. “Those places just want your money. I’m not going anywhere. Do you want me to commit suicide?” I feel like getting on the next plane home. I finally realise that Dad associates care with fear — his mum was neglected in a nursing home 45 years ago. One of the care managers reminds me that Dad can’t operate on a rational level. “Just tell him he is coming for physiotherapy and we will take things from there.” His moving date is Good Friday. It has been a long Lent.

13 April: My daughter has been here from Canada for a week — such a blessing with her concern for her Grandpa. She cooks while I attend to Dad. She and Guillermina set up Dad’s new room with furniture, clothing, linens and toiletries.

14 April (Good Friday): We wake in the early hours to the thump of Dad falling and it takes both of us to get him back into bed. With my brother, we drive Dad to his “physio appointment”, where he is told he will have “live-in” physiotherapy for some time. He is angry and demands that I take him home, but I say quietly: “No, Dad, you need to be here.”

21 April (Easter Week): Dad finally laughs and smiles again — he seems to have forgotten my role in bringing him to his new home. Husband Peter is here now and gets Dad to talk about his many engineering jobs and building projects. The Eucharistic minister arrives and gives us all Eucharist.

3 May: I kiss Dad goodbye, promising another visit before too many months go by and leave for the airport. Having picked up on Dad’s sweet tooth, the kitchen staff quickly slip him an extra dessert.

Tui Motu Magazine. Issue 224, March 2018: 14-15.