Only getting worse

Dad was a man of deep faith. He desired nothing more than to please God and spread the gospel. For 28 years he and Mom served in Congo with the MB Board of Missions/Services. After retirement, he pastored a young church in Quebec.

Dad’s faith also involved experiences of God’s closeness. At 17, a pronounced stammer disappeared when he gave his baptism testimony, which he considered God’s miracle. Every morning before breakfast he read the Bible and prayed for an hour. I often heard him and Mom in prayer before going to bed.

Dad’s faith showed itself in the Spirit’s fruits: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23). He loved his family and loved people. He enjoyed preaching, singing and family times. He was at peace about forgiven sins and God’s care for him in Congo. He taught hundreds of students and raised four children with patience. We marvelled at his kindness when Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons knocked on our door. Dad was faithful to Mom despite frequent separations, and faithful to the Mission Board even in times of crisis. Gentleness bloomed when birds crashed against our window and when grandchildren joined the family. As for self-control, I never heard a vulgarity slip from his tongue.

From about age 65 to his death at 81, however, Dad battled Alzheimer’s disease. Alzheimer’s changed him and his life of faith.

“Dad” Henry Derksen as a young and then middle-aged man: he gave his life to God and the church

Changed patterns

Some times were better and some were worse. Dad often slipped back and forth between the real world and his imagined world. One hour he knew his children and the next he didn’t. One hour he refused to go to bed with Mom, who, he thought, was a stranger. The next hour his world righted itself and he went to bed.

Dad never engaged in violence or flirtation as some Alzheimer’s patients do, but his behaviour changed. Sometimes he asked the same question every 20 minutes. Sometimes he dressed for Sunday on Monday, and for Monday on Sunday. At other times he put his clothes on over his pajamas.

Dad had always called the shots in our family, and he didn’t like losing his independence. He hated the loss of his driver’s license. He wanted to make his own decisions.

But despite Dad’s desire for autonomy, he now felt insecure. He disliked surprises or new surroundings, and preferred the familiar routines of home. Even more important was Mom’s companionship. If she was in the kitchen, he could sit contentedly at the table for hours. If she was gone, whether for an hour or a day, he asked again and again where she was and when she would return.

With insecurity came withdrawal. In good times Dad had been an extrovert. He led the way in games with his children, accepted all the preaching invitations he could, and greeted all he met when walking. But in his later years he became withdrawn and often passive.

Impact on faith

In some ways, Dad’s faith transcended Alzheimer’s disease. Devotional patterns persisted and at 75, when he could no longer converse well, his prayers in church were still rich and meaningful. At 79, when he no longer recognized people, Dad still conducted morning devotions and sang familiar hymns. His moral standards remained high.

Sometimes, however, God seemed silent and distant. Unlike some Alzheimer’s patients who question whether God cares or even exists, Dad did not blame or doubt God. He blamed himself. He believed that when a Christian suffers, God is disciplining for growth (Hebrews 12:4–13). Aware that “something in his ticker” wasn’t quite right, Dad struggled to learn the lesson God was trying to teach. He read the Bible more and prayed more but his memory only got worse. He became down on himself for his spiritual dullness.

One evening, at a family gathering 100 kilometres from home, Dad felt we should be going home. We could not persuade him it was too far to walk, so he and I set out to walk home. After he realized he was lost and returned to the family, he apologized profusely for being unfaithful to Mom. He would not be comforted when she told him it was illness and not sin. Alzheimer’s made Dad feel more discouraged and guilt-ridden.

Perhaps the greatest loss to his life of faith were the fruits of the Spirit visible in interpersonal relations. Dad grew less trusting and more suspicious. His earlier delight in his grandchildren became shorter and shorter, causing impatience with them.

Faith-filled caregivers

Dad’s illness affected all of us. We became careful not to upset him, and tried to prepare him for every little change. By the time he died, he had changed so much and for so long, family members found it hard to remember his original enthusiastic personality. Alzheimer’s has tainted our memories of Dad to this day.

Mom was Dad’s primary caregiver. She was organized, patient and strong. She looked for ways to empower him. She let him lead family devotions to the end. Although she did the calculating and wrote out the cheques, she let him do the business at the bank as long as she dared.

Still, his illness wore her down. When her husband of 45 years accused her of secret manipulation, the hurt was very deep. Dad’s tendency to wander was a major concern. Disappearances produced near-panic, and finding him, enormous relief.

Perhaps most exhausting was when Dad dragged Mom into his unreal world. For example, he sometimes thought he was a child on the farm, responsible to fetch the cows for milking. In minus 20 degree temperatures, they patrolled the streets of Winnipeg together. And there were times, such as when he refused to go to bed, that Mom reached the end of her rope. Overwhelmed and in despair, she would call one of her children for help.

Mom found strength in her long experience of God’s faithfulness, in the support of her family and friends, in her ability to take one day at a time, and in the confidence that God would sustain and ultimately do all things well. However, as Dad became more and more difficult to handle, Mom feared what might lie ahead. In retrospect we see his sudden death as grace.

A church deacon once asked of an Alzheimer’s patient: “How can God allow such a good and faithful believer to suffer like this?” His theology was that God blesses the faithful with a good life, and that sickness is a form of punishment.

My dad’s view was that his memory loss was God’s way of teaching a lesson, and his inability to learn it indicated spiritual dullness. We did not believe this. We always believed that Dad belonged to God, and we grieved that he had become unnecessarily burdened by guilt.

Alzheimer’s is part of our broken world, which God seeks to heal. God loves the ill as much as the healthy. Jesus showed particular compassion for the ill. The experience of Alzheimer’s disease, with its difficult effects on both patient and caregiver, is a time to “bear one another’s burdens” (Galatians 6:2). We are called to draw out of our own faith lives the patience, grace and community support that others need. In so doing, we anticipate the day when brokenness and suffering – that which has gotten worse – will end, and healing will be complete (Revelation 21:1–5).

The author, John, with his parents, Henry and Helen Derksen, in the mid-90s. Henry died in 1997, Helen in 2003.

John Derksen teaches Conflict Resolution Studies at Menno Simons College, Winnipeg, and is a member of River East MB Church.