Worrying about my father during a spring haunted by the coronavirus

I normally look forward to spring.

The land comes back to life from the cold austerity of winter. More people wander about the cobbled streets surrounding China Daily.

You even sort of get used to the restrictions of a pandemic which erupted in December.

For me though, this year is bittersweet. My 88-year-old dad has dementia. He lives in Metro Manila.

The one thing you immediately find out about dementia is: 1) there is no cure.

And 2) his condition will get worse. Never better.

Is there a straight line where he goes from dementia to Alzheimer’s so we can prepare for whatever happens?

No.

The timeline is uncertain. Alzheimer’s is characterized by memory lapses, confusion, emotional instability and the progressive loss of mental skills. The memory of who he is vanishes in befuddlement.

It is very hard on families, and especially in this case, his wife.

The most cruel part of Alzheimer’s is that one day my father may not even remember who I am.

I just got word from my brother that our dad is getting worse. He is mulling the idea of flying home from Pennsylvania this summer to visit him.

I called my stepmother to confirm what my brother told me and she said taking care of him is getting more difficult.

My father is an accountant who survived World War II by hiding in bombed-out Manila from soldiers of the Japanese army running amok in 1945 when he was 14 years old.

He loved telling the yarn how he and his late brother were nearly shot after some Japanese soldiers took a shine to the pig they were taking care of.

I don’t know what ever happened to that pig.

I have abiding memories of my father, who loved playing football until he had to go to work and start supporting his mother and siblings after my grandfather was killed during the war as a guerrilla.

One memory is of him racing the cashier at supermarkets to calculate how much his grocery bill is, down to the last centavo. He usually wins. It’s not the game show Jeopardy.

The other is waking up at 4 am on a Saturday (and always on that day) for his weekend foray to the Quinta wet market in the center of Manila to buy choice cuts of fish and pork from his favorite vendors.

He loved doing that.

Since COVID-19 seems to have a predilection for people of a certain age like my father, I worry he will get it too.

Even if he passes on in the months or years ahead, I am unsure about my ability to make it home to the Philippines.

That’s the rub.

If I fly home to Manila should anything happen to him this year, I will be put in quarantine there for two weeks because of COVID-19.

When I fly back to Beijing, the situation could be complicated because of travel restrictions that are in place. By my count, the total is two weeks at least of quarantine, maybe more.

I am hoping he lasts a tiny bit longer. My hope is that he gets to 90 years old in 2021, the year of the Metal Ox, which happens to be my birth sign as well.

So spring for me will be haunted and accompanied by a sense of foreboding, apprehensive that bad news may be just an email or text message away.

At a time when the pandemic has taken so many, my only hope for this spring is a chance that I may be able to see him again.

Bottom line though, I am prepared it may not happen.

C’est la vie.