Hey Donny!

For the past three years I have been greeted with "Hey Scotty!" almost every time that I got to see Don. "Papa Don" as I like to call him. After he started that, I noticed other people calling me Scotty all the time too. I haven't been "Scotty" since I was a kid.

Don on the other hand, has been "Donny" all his life. In fact his wife of 58 years, Arlene calls him Donny all the time.

The circumstances under which I met Don were less than ideal to say the least. Kris and I moved in together just before Thanksgiving in 2012 and Thanksgiving is when I met Don for the first time.

Like all guys whose object of affection is another mans daughter, I was a bit nervous. I shouldn't have been. It didn't last very long.

Don only knew about me what Kris had told him.

When he came to the house that Thanksgiving, there were no real introductions. Don acted like we had always known each other and the next thing you know we were out in the garage getting tools and working on things he wanted to get done. I think he was gauging my value as a man by my ability to use tools and solve problems.

Don knew nothing about me, other than his daughter was happy, and that was all that mattered to him.

As it turned out, we have quite a bit in common, Don & I, in our way of thinking and doing things.

Don was a proud man, but not afraid to admit that age had slowed him down a bit. It was always a pleasure for me to do some little thing for him that he could have done himself, that he just didn't need to do.

I was pretty proud every time I'd do something and he'd say "that's the way I'd do it!"

Perhaps Don's similarities with me were more similarities with my father and perhaps that's why we got along so well and had a mutual respect for each other.

He was always happy to see me and almost always said "Heeeyyy Scotty!" It always made me smile. Men will not call men by childhood nicknames unless there is a great deal of respect involved. We're weird like that.

Papa Don was a very unique individual. In the end, Alzheimer's had taken a bunch of his memories, but was kind enough to allow them to return from time to time. When I met Don it was already starting. His wife & daughters knew. They saw the forgetfulness and everything that came with it, but it was comparatively mild in the beginning.

Don knew it too. Also like me, Don was a practical joker.

So while his family worried about his failing memory and his occasional slips and falls, Don would pretend to be worse than he was.

He would act completely serious like he had no clue what someone was talking about. Then he'd look at me, smile and wink.

I don't know how many times I told Kris that Don was playing with them. And he most assuredly was, much of the time.

In the past nine months Don's condition worsened and his failing memory was more real and less acting for reaction.

He really got a kick out of making a joke out of this thing he didn't understand. I'm not sure anyone but me actually saw that he was screwing around. Nobody else saw him smile & wink after saying something a little out there.

I think he knew the seriousness of the situation, even though he didn't know then what it was.

When the jokes about losing it stopped, Don really started to forget.

There were days he didn't know his wife or daughters.

He had no idea when to eat, sleep or go to the bathroom because in his mind the clocks were just spinning in circles. Sometimes backwards. 6:00AM, now 3:00AM, now 10:00AM.

He would yell at people, call them names and generally be pretty mean spirited. Which was not Don. Which made it excruciating for his family that loves him.

Then he'd snap back and be ok.

Then people would be trying to poison him. He wanted his guns. There were strange men in black suits milling about.

He became threatening and was capable of weak attempts at violence and had to be put in a place that could handle his ever changing mood swings, paranoia and slipping lucidity.

I believe scientifically that the reason Don never forgot me or who I was is directly related to the fact that I was the last new person to become a regular part of his life.

Even when Kris said he didn't know her and called her "that girl", I could walk in and he'd say "Heeeyyy Scotty!".

It felt kind of odd being the one person he could remember all the time. But it was nice too. Kind of like that smile & wink. He was ok, but he wasn't.

The first time I went to see him at the nursing home, he was in the dining room with his new friends. The first thing he did was introduce "my son-in-law, Scotty". Don didn't care about marriage certificates. It damn near made me cry when he did that.

While Alzheimer's was stealing his 84 years of memories, while 84 years had weakened his heart to barely operating, Don continued being Don when he could. Having known about the smile and wink, I knew Don was initially aware of what was going on.

Could his life and memory have been extended had he acknowledged these things and asked for help earlier on? We'll never know. Whether he was too proud to acknowledge it or whether he believed there would be no choice in the end, Don chose to just keep doing the best he could. In hindsight it becomes obvious how long and how hard he fought losing himself.

I have been blessed with many a great man in my life and Don is certainly a top shelf keeper in my world.

The pride and love he had for his family just knocked me out.

Sure, Don was also a man. Human, flawed, issues like the rest of us.

Also like the rest of us, the inherent good far outweighs any character flaws Don might have had.

When Kris would come home from seeing him, in tears because he had yelled at her, called her names or determined she was working with the enemy, all I could think and say was "that's not your Dad. He would be mortified if he knew he had done that". Don on his worst day would not do that to his family.

Kris learned when to let go and not pay attention. She found the courage to leave him to nap when she could see he was stuck in anger and hostility. She learned it was more important to remember her Dad than Donny, the guy who sometimes didn't remember his little girl.

The last conversation I had with Don was the only one that Don was not Don. He was always himself with me except that last time. He told me about the people watching him. There was somebody in room 7 that was bad news. Of course there was no room number 7.

He was shutting down then and two days later he passed with his daughters Kris and Sue at his side, holding him close.

The last 48 hours of Don's life were the hardest for his daughters who watched as he struggled to let go.

Today, while I'm grateful Don found his way, it still seems unreal that I will never walk into a room and see Don napping only to awake and say "Heeyyy Scotty!".

Hey Donny! Thanks for everything! I sure would have loved to meet you earlier in life and tackled more projects together, but I'm endlessly grateful for the time we did get.

That wink and smile will remain with me.

Always.