Saw Dad today. As always, a bittersweet visit. Pete thought that Dad looked good. I thought that he looked like he'd lost quite a bit of weight. His hair is thinner, almost gone, really. His face still looks the same, perhaps even a little younger than he actually is. I was pleased to see that he had a warm winter coat that looked fairly new. I swear, he'd never admit it himself, but he never can remember Pete's name. he calls him "Sir." in fact, we passed Dad's neighbor on the street, who I remember meeting last year, and Dad couldn't recall the guy's name... Someone he sees every day! :^(

We walked to a restaurant of his choosing. I kept a close eye on him, because, as he reiterates quite often, he has trouble with his equilibrium. He staggers, stooped over, with one hand in front of him and miraculously does not trip or collide with anyone walking towards us. He also still has double vision, and a debilitating tremor on his right side that prevents him from driving, writing or using a computer. How he manages to go about his day to day excursions (not to mention his nocturnal bar-hopping) is quite mind-boggling. 

The restaurant appeared to be just a run-of-the-mill pizzeria, but the menu selections were quite extensive, with Greek and American selections among the Italian fare. Dad ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, I ordered a Greek salad and Pete got a chicken kebab salad. The portions were so huge that none of us were able to finish our food. At one point, Pete got up to use the restroom, and Dad asked me: "How's Lilly?" (My late mother.)
Um... Awkward. 
"She passed away," I reminded him. "In 2006. A car accident. I told you... remember?"
Dad shook his head hopelessly, looking genuinely crushed.
"She would have been happy I found you," I assured him. "Enough time had gone by that she forgave you. She had ill will toward you..." 
"Some things you never get over," he said. 
Crap. Crap. Crap. Is this how it's gonna be every time I see him? Will I have to break the news to him each time??? sigh.
Dad also couldn't remember that my grandparents are dead, nor could he remember if his own parents were alive. We go over this every time. I understand it's the Alzheimer's, but... LOGICALLY, he knows that he's 71. Wouldn't he deduce the unlikeliness of his folks still being alive? And weirdly, he can remember that his brothers, Alex and Gerald, died. Also, Dad seemed surprised that I'm going to be 40 in January. He never fails to send me a birthday card in plenty of time for January 31, but he's otherwise lost in time.
Pete and I tried to press Dad about if he'd be happier living in an apartment instead of the group home where he is, but he said no, he's happy there. "Nobody bothers me," he said. I was surprised, being that my father is an extremely private, reclusive person and this is a house with shared bathrooms, etc. I also inquired as to whether he has access to health care. He said yes, then changed the subject. 
It frustrates me that he doesn't take advantage of whatever benefits he has... He needs to get his eyes taken care of, and his Alzheimer's monitored! 
He remembered Ernie and Virginia (his brother and sister-in-law) had been to visit him recently. But then he repeated his strange belief that his father had been shot, which never happened. He stated that he'd asked Ernie and Virginia about it, but that they wouldn't give him a direct answer. His imaginary reality is just as disturbing as the Alzheimer's. 
We visited with Dad in his room. I asked if there was anything he needed, and he said no, then changed his mind and asked for new attachments for his electric razor. After our visit, he walked us out the front door. He and I got our customary picture taken in the yard. I told him I loved him and to take care of himself. He said he would take care of himself, but as usual, he didn't say he loved me back. Men.
The sadness whenever I leave my dad takes its time sinking in. It drips into my system like an IV, over a period of hours. Then, all of a sudden, it's THERE, this overwhelming sense of: "What can I do? How is this fair? What's going to happen next?"
As the we rode the green line down the tracks, back to our neighborhood, I could only hope that today wouldn't be the last time I see my father alive.