REMEMBER, DAD; MEMORIES FLOOD BACK OF DAYS BEFORE FATHER HAD ALZHEIMER'S DISEASE.

Byline: Dara Monahan

I was taking a stroll on Father's Day last year when I noticed a crumpled piece of newspaper on the sidewalk. It was an ad for a men's clothing sale headed by the words ``Remember Dad.'' Of course, it meant to remember your father on the day honoring him. But I couldn't help reading those two words as a plea: Remember, Dad.

Today, my father, George, who has Alzheimer's disease, will be spending his first Father's Day away from home. He has been in a nursing home since July. He's 86 - 20 years my mother's senior. This two-decade age difference wasn't the only bone of contention when he and my mother married in 1954. Even more scandalous for the daughter of Eastern European Jews, he was a devout Catholic. As the cliche goes, they said it wouldn't last, and there were times when they were almost right. My father's alcoholism led to some rocky years for all of us, and there were some periods when a separation would have been a blessing. But they stayed together, and June 1 was their 45th anniversary. Although my mother still technically has a husband, in many ways she's a widow. In fact, on their past three anniversaries, she told me I was the only person to acknowledge the occasion with a card. Although it's a day that brings more sorrow than joy, it doesn't feel right to ignore it. Especially since it commemorates a union that brought four happy, healthy children into the world - four children who have grown up to be responsible, intelligent, caring adults, mostly through the love of those two people.

To be fair, most of my clarity comes from distance. My parents and siblings all live 3,000 miles away. I didn't have to help pack my father's war medals and other mementos into cardboard boxes. I didn't have to gather photographs of family members for the bulletin board in his new room. I didn't have to leave him in a strange place, promise to come right back and then drive away.

I visited my father in the home for the first time in September. It was as awful as I'd anticipated, and it was just as hard the second time. During my last visit, I was sitting with his recreational therapist, and I suddenly wondered what she thought of this old man who shuffled silently through his day. Did she know anything about him? That his parents and sister died in the flu epidemic when he was just 5 years old? That as a 12-year-old newsboy he won a trip to see President Coolidge for selling the most subscriptions of the Staten Island Advance? That he was crazy about the New York Yankees and Barbara Stanwyck? That his favorite song was ``Stardust''? That he would spend an entire Sunday completing the New York Times crossword puzzle? That he always had a roll of Wint-O-Green Lifesavers? That he cried during ``Lassie Come Home''? That he never missed a Little League game, piano recital or graduation? That he worked full time until he was 74? That, although he drank to ease a suffering he could never express to his family, he loved us with all his heart?

As the lump in my throat swelled, all I could manage to say to her was, ``I don't know what you see when you look at my father, but he was the nicest man in the world.'' She replied gently, ``Honey, he still is.''

One of the last times I was alone with my father, we were waiting in the car for my mother to return a library book. We looked out the car window and saw some children riding on the swings at a nearby playground. That was one of my favorite activities as a child, and since we didn't have a lot of money, a trip to the park was always an affordable treat. As I watched the kids at play, I said to my father, ``I remember when you used to push me on the swings when I was little. That was always so much fun. Remember, Dad?''

He said he remembered. And I like to pretend that he did.

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2 Photos

PHOTO (1) Dara Monahan

(2) Dara Monahan's father, George, walks in Brooklyn, N.Y. in 1956.