Page 90 of Direct Action

I absorbed more of his strength and went on. “My mom insisted he see his doctor when he started sitting in his car in the driveway, not remembering why he was in the car or where he was going. That was the first time we heard the word dementia.” That was the day my whole world started to crumble. “He tried cholinesterase inhibitors, but the medication gave him headaches at first, then dizziness, and after three months horrible hallucinations that led to anger and confusion. The doctors tried another medication to slow the effects and added in reminiscence therapy. He was still losing short-term memories, but the confusion and hallucinations were gone. He had more tests, more doctors’ appointments, and finally after gene mapping he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. But I still had my dad.”

Now for the hard part. The worst part. The part I hated.

“Even if he didn’t remember a family dinner from the week before, he still remembered me. He was still him. Then he wasn’t,” I whispered.

“Chloe,” Ryan returned just as quietly.

That one soft word was saturated with compassion. I wasn’t sure if hearing it cracked something open inside me, or if it was stitching closed the festering wound around my heart.

I couldn’t say if it felt good or bad.

What I could say was, it felt raw.

Raw and invasive and soothing all at the same time.

“I hate that he’s gone,” I mumbled. “Here but lost to me. One morning I had my dad, and four hours later, I had a man who looked like him but was not.”

“Four hours?”

“Four,” I confirmed. “Almost a year ago, he started having issues with his gallbladder. It turned into pancreatitis. With Alzheimer’s, any surgery is a huge risk. Medication wasn’t working. Surgery was the only option. We went in knowing anesthesia could trigger inflammation. The side effect to that could be accelerated decline of cognitive function. We didn’t have a choice.”

Or did we? What if we would’ve waited another few days to see if a different cocktail of meds worked?

Maybe.

What if.

More guilt.

So much guilt I was suffocating.

Ryan’s hand holding mine squeezed. Then his thumb started moving. A slow, gentle glide. More strength from him.

“He . . . um . . . The side effects were bad.” Understatement. “He suffered from delirium. The doctors told us it could wear off. It got worse. There was no way my mom could take him home while he was disoriented, which led to outbursts.”

I quickly shook away the memories of the early days after his surgery. The yelling and confusion. The hallucinations. The nonsensical mumbling. The frustration.

“Those early days were terrifying and horrific, but watching my mom leave behind the man she loves and adores at Leisure Village was the worst day of my life.”

Another understatement.

“You’re wrong,” Ryan told me with a gentle kiss to the back of my head.

“About what?”

“You said your dad loved your mom. You’re wrong about that; he loves you both. I’m not a father, but a man who takes his daughter for early-morning walks—and finagles it so he’s taking care of his girl in a way she can’t turn down since it’s a present—loves his daughter. And a man who will pull out all the stops to make his woman happy, because he loves her, does not love from the heart and mind. He loves from his soul. That kind of love is eternal.”

Oh no, I was going to lose it.

But this time when I cried in Ryan’s arms, I did it knowing I’d been right—there was nothing that would make losing my dad easier, yet being in Ryan’s cocoon of strength did make it easier.

“You didn’t lie,” I muttered as I gathered up another stack of invoices.

“Told you we hated paperwork,” Ryan said from across the office.

The space wasn’t small, but it was packed with too much furniture, making it feel cluttered. Add in three large men, and that was three too many people.

“I hope you had that thing professionally cleaned before you dragged it in from the dump,” I told him, noting the ratty-ass mustard-yellow couch Ryan was sitting on.