Change of Condition

An update about my father.

The series of voicemails starts innocuously enough.

"Hi Ernest, this is Daniel from Fremont Village. Just letting you know about a change in condition with your father..."

Right away, you notice they don't open with the usual "Your father is doing fine." After enough calls, you start seeing these things.

“He hasn’t been eating well today, at breakfast time or lunch. We gave him supplements and took them well, but wondering if you could call me back because I want to send him to the ER to get him evaluated.”

I don’t eat well because I’m a pre-diabetic who has regressed to eating double stuffed Oreos instead of dealing with feelings. Mom doesn’t eat well because she’s too tired to cook for herself and refuses the help of other people, so she eats microwaved American TV dinners and wonders why her blood pressure is soaring.

Dad’s not eating well because he has fucking Alzheimer’s and you’re pretty sure he’s now forgotten how to eat and drink.

---

It takes three missed calls before you realize the unknown number isn't another timeshare scam but the doctor who has apparently been operating on your father for the past few hours.

You only really snap to attention when he uses phrases such as "kidney failure" and something about "the highest sodium levels I've ever seen." Suddenly you're scrambling to take notes, hitting the hotkey for voice transcription to write notes to Obsidian because your brain has already started the check-out process.

The doctor's words are preserved in Obsidian's clinical typography:

He's in shock, but the shock has gotten a little better since I started the fluids, and his kidneys have failed. So, you know, at 93, that's [not] good, do I think.

You only remember what he said because of these notes. The same way you only remember what you had for lunch because of your ADHD app, or where you parked because of your phone's GPS pin. Technology remembering so you don't have to.

It's funny how that works. Here you are, documenting your father's forgetting while relying on machines to do your remembering for you.

The doctor mentioned that he called a different number before yours, but the older woman who answered didn’t speak English and asked to contact you instead. He also wondered if my father filled out any “do not resuscitate” forms.

You bite your tongue.

---

You find yourself using ChatGPT to translate medical emergencies into Taiwanese Chinese. Because this is what we do now - use AI to tell our mothers their husbands are dying. You stare at the prompt cursor:

Please translate into Taiwan Chinese for my 87-year-old mom, sending thru sms. All caps mean it can remain in English.

The AI spits back perfectly formal Chinese that your mother will probably still misunderstand.

---

You show up the next morning with your mother. Of course, you feel guilty about this. You rationalize it with hospital visiting hours, needing sleep, and a dozen other excuses that don't quite work.

He looks better than you expected. Worse than you hoped. His mouth hangs slightly open, eyes sunken despite the IV fluids. You watch your mother perform her new ritual.

"What's your name?" She asks it like other people say good morning. "Chi-Ming Hsiung. Your name is Chi-Ming Hsiung."

The silence that follows feels like its own diagnosis.

---

You can’t help but wonder whether you conveyed enough urgency communicating to your mother about a man who, let’s be honest, didn’t see eye-to-eye with.

Actually, he was kind of an asshole, a quiet voice whispers in your head.

He was a complex man, an even softer whisper responds. For fuck’s sake, he’s practically on his death bed. You’re the asshole, asshole.

You've gotten good at these internal debates. They're practically scheduled programming now, running between errands and hospital visits and whatever crisis Mom's suddenly ambivalent about next.

A complex man who was also an asshole. Both these things can be true. But the man in front of you right now is neither - he's just... absent. Change of condition, Daniel's voicemail echoes.

You let those words settle a moment too long.

---

You've always wondered what it would be like to have Alzheimer's - the same abstract way you wonder about zombie bites or winning the lottery. Is there still someone in there, watching everything slip away? Or is it more like falling asleep in front of Netflix - consciousness fading so gradually you don't notice until you're already gone?

You forget things all the time—keys, wallet, that meeting that was definitely on your calendar. But those are different kinds of forgetting. Aren't they?

Your mother is asking his name again.

The silence feels different this time.