My elderly father had dementia, anger issues — and many guns

I had taken my mother, Colleen, to a hotel the night before so she could get some rest after months of being on her last nerve. My father would occasionally ask where she was, and I would say the same thing: “Don’t worry. She’s just getting some rest and will be back first thing in the morning.” I didn’t think he knew who I was, but the information seemed to make sense to him.

At one point that night, my father came into the living room and sat in a chair next to me, newly changed into a clean baseball-style cap and clothes, shirt cuffs turned back one easy fold, gold watch, freshly shaved face gleaming. A man of the world, ready to go it alone.

“So,” he said, “you and Colleen are hitting it off pretty good.”

I was stunned. He didn’t look at me. His hands folded, he was a jilted man, nodding slowly with pursed lips. He seemed to be anticipating a fight.

“Yeah, she’s my mother,” I said, “so we hit it off pretty good.” I realize I could have given a better answer, one that took into account that he was in the grip of a disease that was robbing him of his mind.

His face shattered, a startled reaction at the realization that he was speaking to his son.

“And you are my father,” I said. “I’m Junior.”

“You are? Oh, I — ” It broke him down. “I guess — I’ve been — my memory ain’t what it used to be. It’s — embarrassing. Don’t say, ‘I’m your son.’ Just say ‘Dad’ and maybe say your name.”

“OK, Dad,” I said. “I’ll be here tonight to hang out with you, Dad. I’ll pick up Mom first thing and bring her home.”

I thought that calling him Dad repeatedly was working. Then I slept until he started wandering around naked, which didn’t trouble me; he wouldn’t wander around naked in front of a stranger, would he? We were father and son getting through a long, anxious night together. I felt relief.

Then came the scraping at the step well.

I felt a chill, dread and almost terror when I realized what he was doing.

He was digging for the .22 semiautomatic pistol that he’d had stashed there for years and that I’d taken a few days before. My mouth went dry. I swung my feet over onto the floor. “Good morning, Dad,” I said loudly, cheerfully. I had slept in my clothes and slipped into my shoes. “How’s it going, Dad?”

He stood up and pulled his belted pants up, like “Hey, nothing going on here.” He nonchalantly stepped up out of the well, shooed the dog away. “Going just fine.” He sat and smiled a cold smile of violence I’d seen plenty during my life with him. He could be loving and kind, but he also grew mean and violent when he felt insulted or threatened.

Right then, I felt profound relief that I’d removed all the guns from my parents’ home.

A sheriff’s deputy had joined us when I brought my mother back to the RV that morning, and with the deputy’s help, we took my father to the hospital. I never saw him again. My mother remained by his bedside until he died a few days later.

“This is where a part of me wants to yell at lawmakers,” Betz said after hearing my story. “It’s time for us to be grownups and have a conversation, and it might be that we have to find some compromises. But there are families out there who are facing these tough situations, and I don’t think it’s fair to just be paralyzed.”