Candace McLean

Alzheimer's Awareness Month

Remembering Dad

With 3 flicks of the wrist, it was gone. I admit, I was taken in, incredulously once again. The worn copper penny my Dad had shown me only moments earlier now apparently lay lodged in his forearm. You could see the lump protruding from beneath his skin like a rock under a fresh blanket of new fallen snow. Of course, I was fascinated. How many children could say their Dad was magic? Dad entertained countless friends and family members with this sleight of hand and other well-crafted tricks. I remember begging him relentlessly to share the secret of his magic with me, but to no avail. He simply laughed, enjoying every moment. I’m not sure how he dodged my persistent questions. No small feat, I’m sure… Today, my own children have an astronomical rate of success when it comes to wearing me down.

A Life Well Lived

My Dad had an amazing radiance to him that everyone felt in his presence. He had a brilliant and mischievous sense of humour, always poking fun, trying to encourage at least a smile, if not a laugh. He had a kind, kind heart, an unforgettable sparkle in his eyes and a way of making people feel special when they were with him.

Born to hard-working Finnish immigrants, my father, Michael Huhta was raised in Silver Mountain, just outside of Nolalu (west of Thunder Bay). A strong work ethic, a love of family, and a willingness to help your neighbour were the common threads that entwined this growing Finnish community. I remember hearing the stories of community plays, music, dancing and laughter. This sense of community and these time-honoured values became the cornerstoned of his life, and it was apparent in how he lived, worked and loved.

After many years of work, my Dad enjoyed a lengthy retirement, doing all the things he loved – going out to camp, hunting, fishing, playing the accordion, and being with family and friends. But, in the last few years of his life, things became different. Like many others of his generation, he lost much of his memory and understanding of reality, becoming pseudo-captive to the debilitating illness we call Alzheimer’s. If your life has been touched in some way by this disease, you know that it can be likened to a perpetrator in the night stealing your loved one’s intellectual and emotional capacity, aside from other dignities. Suddenly, families find themselves tracking inconsistencies, looking for new and odd behaviours in their loved one to gauge the disease’s steady and unremitting progression. 

Seeing Past Alzheimer's

During that difficult time following his diagnosis when things started to really go downhill, I completely lost sight of the inconsistencies. I didn’t notice these strange things that Dad was saying or doing anymore. Something else took over. I could only see the same light-hearted, warm, loving and vibrant man I always knew and loved. It was like I was a child again looking through innocent eyes and seeing “just my Dad”. Denial? Maybe. But, he laughed, he played, he joked. Even with Alzheimer’s, he was so full of life. I realize that others’ experiences with this disease will be different than mine. Perhaps the disease hadn’t quite progressed as far in my father’s case. If it was the third time I heard him tell the same story that day, I listened - not to the words, but to his excitement, and I watched his eyes dance with delight.

To me, he was not “gone”. You see, that spark - that energy did not die in him. His magic never left. Alzheimer’s may have robbed him and us of a lot of things, but it couldn’t take away the essence of who he was.

So, as Alzheimer's Awareness month is upon us this November, I can't help but look back. I think about that little girl who so desperately wanted to understand magic, and I realize something - little did I know Dad had been teaching me magic all along. It was the essence of who he was and how he lived his life. Every moment was magical to him: the morning sunrise; helping me learn to ride a bike; giving his neighbour a helping hand, seeing that glorious lake trout pierce the surface of the water in the early morn; they all held a magical moment for him. Sadly, my Dad passed away a year and a half ago. I will remember every moment I had with him, knowing Alzheimer’s never really took away the greatest part of him. That kind of magic just never goes away.