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Something is Wrong with Daddy, A Family's Battle with PSP
PSP is hard on all of us, however, you must remember that your loved one is still in there wanting to communicate with you. Join a support group I have created one on Facebook called PSP Support. Tell everyone you know about PSP, the more we know the better off we are.
– Suzanne Brent
“Something is Wrong with Daddy” by, Suzanne T. Brent August 4, 2008
When people ask me about my Dad, Carroll Brent, I feel I stand a bit taller and smile a bit wider. This is a story not only about my Dad’s life and battle with PSP, this is a story about my family and how we loved, lived, learned and lost.
My Dad, like most dads, was often heard saying “clean your room, wash the car, do your homework, turn off the lights, money doesn’t grow on trees.” Dad was a huge Kentucky Wildcat fan, he loved his family, his cars, the garden; he was a self-proclaimed carpenter and fence builder. Dad loved being outdoors; spring and summer were by far his favorite seasons.
My parents have four children I am the youngest. My siblings were already in college and starting their careers by the time I started middle school. Dad owned and operated a car leasing company; our Mom, a nurse by profession traveled several times a month with her job. Therefore, it was Dad and I, and we spent quite a bit of time together; and we enjoyed it, although as a teenager and parent we argued as well.
I suppose it was only natural that I began to notice the small changes in Dad because I was with him so much. I remember saying to my Mom and siblings “something is wrong with Daddy.” In the beginning the changes were so small that most people would not notice, however; we as a family did. Dad began to get angry about the smallest things and it was never the same thing twice. It was like walking around on pins and needles. We never knew what would upset him. Dad began to lose interest in the things he loved the most and began to withdrawal from family and friends. He would tell us he did not feel right but could never say exactly what it was that was bothering him.
Doctors told our family that Dad was depressed, so they tried antidepressants; that did not work. Doctors suggested in patient treatment and shock therapy; as his family, we would do anything to help him feel better, so we followed the doctor’s suggestions. Those two weeks that Dad was in the psychiatric ward in the hospital were torture for all of us, leaving him there was horrible; even more so when the treatment did not make him better.
My Mom made a call to her primary care physician and told her “my husband is going away, I need help.” Dad’s hands began to tremble and his gait was off. Parkinson’s, the doctors told us; again treatment did not work, the doctors were wrong and Dad’s condition was getting worse. Mom recalls a time when Dad threw her crystal vase in the dumpster, yet laid the dead flowers on the bench in the garage. He no longer had his business and could not hold a job. He began having small fender benders and at one point forgot where he had dropped one of the family cars for service; we never saw the car again. Alzheimer disease that is what is wrong with your husband/Dad. This diagnosis however did not explain his balance problem and his tendency to fall backwards. Then there was that stare he had, it was as if he was looking through you, not at you.
God watches out for us even when we feel he is breaking our hearts. Mom was offered a job in Orlando Florida. It was 1998, and hard to see my parents move away; later we learned that move was the blessing we had been looking for and the curse we had been afraid of hearing. Mom and Dad saw a neurologist at the University of Florida in 1999. Dad’s downward eye movement and balance problem told the doctor all he needed to know. PSP was the diagnosis; however, there was no known cause, treatment or cure. That day my Dad was handed a death sentence; our family was handed PSP. There was not a gift-wrapped box that came with the diagnosis explaining everything; no one knew what to expect or how to cope. It was a riddle… Knock Knock. Who is there? PSP. PSP who? Exactly!
So all of us did our research, Mom asked all the questions any of us could think of; the bottom line, we had to figure it out as it came. The symptoms came faster than any of us expected; the husband/Dad we knew was leaving us right before our eyes, as a family we where losing. There were so many times I asked God, why us, why my Daddy?
November 4, 2001 Dad fell trying to get around by himself. He hit a doorknob fractured his scull, severed his eyelid and had other cuts and bruises. Dad spent six weeks in the hospital, Mom right by his side. We sent cards and letters encouraging Dad to get better so that he could come to Kentucky for Christmas. My Mom has to be the strongest woman I know, she is the one who took care of Dad everyday, protecting all of us from the truth that was becoming our Dad. Mom was able to bring Dad to Kentucky for Christmas that year and although he spent most of his time in bed, we all got our Christmas wish, Mom and Dad home for the holidays.
We said goodbye to them in the security line at the airport. I took Dad’s winter coat; he would not need it in Florida. I hugged my Mom, thanked her for being her and for being so strong. Then I walked to my Dad’s wheelchair bent over, hugged him, kissed him and told him I loved him. I walked away from him knowing I would never see him again. I clung to my brother and cried as we left the airport.
Six weeks after I hugged my Dad in the Louisville airport, he lost his battle with PSP. Carroll L. Brent, husband, dad, “Pop,” uncle, brother, brother in law and friend died Friday morning February 8, 2002.
When people ask me, about my Dad, I stand tall and feel extremely proud and I smile wider. I once asked God why our family, why my daddy; I now know the answer. My Dad having had PSP gave our family the opportunity to educate, support and assist in fundraising efforts. I promised my Dad the night before he died that I would make sure that people heard his story; and I that I would help others learn about PSP, how it affects families, families just like ours.
Thank you for helping me keep the promise I made to my Dad; thank you for helping me keep him alive in our hearts by allowing me to tell his story. If our family’s story of PSP can help one other family, or help to raise even one dollar for research and education then I know that my Daddy did not die in vein.
