Cherished moments that dad will forget

They relish the old stories, this father and sons.

Joe Fabbiano, 87, smiles as he recalls how his young boys, Al and Mike, always loved to hide in the hamper, where their giggles would give them away. Al, 61, leans in to touch his father's hand as they talk about family fishing trips to Spooner Lake, neighborhood guys such as Vito, Louie, Johnny and Otto, ballroom dances, the day Joe left his job at the ink plant the minute he heard about the deadly fire at his sons' Our Lady of Angels School, and the day Joe turned his sons into Cubs fans by insisting the youngsters come inside to watch Jack Brickhouse call the 9th inning of Don Cardwell's no-hitter.

They laugh, hug and share a kiss goodbye.

And today, when they get together to celebrate Father's Day, Joe won't remember a lick of that great visit.

That Joe still recognizes his sons and his wife puts him ahead of some of his fellow residents at Arden Courts of Elk Grove Village, a home for people with Alzheimer's disease and memory loss. During today's full slate of Father's Day activities, some fathers might not even remember that they are fathers.

“A resident might not recognize their loved one right away,” says Kelly Fritz, the senior program services coordinator at Arden Court. They'll return a smile, maybe even find the face familiar, but won't be able to come up with a name.

Being greeted with a vacant stare or blunt “Who are you?” can be difficult for the adult children who “want to remember Mom or Dad as they used to be,” Fritz says. She encourages frustrated loved ones not to waste an entire visit asking a barrage of questions such as “Who am I?” or “How old are you?”

“If you can get past that, you can have good moments,” Fritz says. “At some point, the blessing in the diseased people is that they forget they're not remembering. They are enjoying the moments you spend with them. We're always stressing being in the moment.”

As heartbreaking as the losses can be, Al and Mike say they find some joy in their father's dementia.

“He lived in Arizona 14 months ago and I hardly saw him,” Al says. “Now I can see him whenever I want.”

Living within walking distance of Arden Courts, Al, an Inland Bank mortgage broker who works out of his house, and his wife, Janelle, stop by for several visits during the week. Often they'll bring a couple of grandkids with them. Mike, 59, and his wife, Carole, live in Elmwood Park, and visit often. They'll all be there today.

“I enjoy as much as I can now and take advantage of what we have right now because I know nothing is going to get better,” Mike says.

The 56 residents at Arden Courts range in age from 53 to a woman who recently turned 100. They live in four distinctive wings and have their own rooms, decorated with personal touches and family photographs. They eat in cozy dining rooms at tables of four to encourage friendships and a family atmosphere.

“We have early risers and we have late risers,” Fritz says, explaining how the staff learns each resident's old routine. “Did that individual read the paper in the morning? He'll be out of sorts if we don't let him do that.”

A handful of residents sit around a TV showing an old movie. They play bingo, beanbag toss and other games. Mourning doves are in cages in sitting areas next to a bin of napkins under a sign reading, “Please fold,” which keeps residents busy and feeling as if they've accomplished something, Fritz says.

Joe correctly recalls getting a visit earlier from his wife, Millie, the one he married in 1989 after his first wife, also named Millie, died of a heart attack in 1987 while watching “Wheel of Fortune” in their Chicago home.

“Millie didn't come today,” a confused Joe says later.

With Al doing some prodding, the father and son pool their recollections.

“Together we've got a good memory, don't we, Dad?” says Al, who prompts his father to tell stories about Joe's grandfather.

“I'll never forget the time I took him on the new streetcar on Madison,” begins Joe, who remembers his grandfather stumbling to the other end of the train because he forgot to hold on. Or how the grandfather was so short, he once was mistaken for Joe's “little friend.”

Joe's eyes twinkle when he talks about baseball.

“I'm not saying I had the best arm, but I was pretty good,” Joe says, moving the baseball conversation to his favorite team. “I'm strictly a Cubs fan. Andy Pafko was an outfielder and he was one of my favorites. He's got to be pretty old now because I was pretty young when I liked him, and I'm not a youngster anymore.”

Pafko, who is 90 and lives in Mount Prospect, is one of those rare Cubs who played in a World Series during an era when Joe remembers dancing to big bands at the Paradise Ballroom. But when asked to tell his story of how he met his first wife at a USO dance in New York, Joe just shakes his head and says, “I don't remember.” He recalls names of many friends, and smiles when it's suggested that, for an 87-year-old, Joe has lots of friends who visit, call or write.

“That's 'cuz I didn't die yet,” Joe quips.

“He remembers more stuff from years ago than present stuff,” Mike says. But the son still tells his father the latest family news.

“He might not remember in an hour, but he enjoys hearing it,” Mike says.

Joe talks about how he enjoys visits from any of his four grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren, but he hangs his head when he can't come up with their names.

“I play with the kids,” Joe says, as he and Al re-enact the “hands on top” game where everyone alternates their hands in a pile with the one on the bottom moving to the top.

“Can I ask you something?” Joe says suddenly, turning to face me. “Why are you writing this stuff down?”

I tell him I'm taking notes for a newspaper column I'm writing about Father's Day.

“That's fine. There's nothing wrong with that,” Joe says, eager to help.

“I like being a father because … because … I feel that … that…,” Joe says, starting boldly before his lips clench and his head droops so that he's staring at his hands. “I don't know how to say it.”

Al pats his father's hand and gives it a squeeze.

Joe doesn't have to explain to his sons what he likes about being a father. They have their moments.