Revisiting Love and Lapses: A Conversation with Code Switch host B.A. Parker
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Hey everybody, today we are back for the holidays with a little sonic gift. But first, in the spirit of asking for what we need, we're asking for your support.

This season, donate to support our work so we can keep bringing you the stories and journalism you love. You can choose whether to give to your local NPR station directly or donate to the NPR network in support of your favorite shows and podcasts. Like, hint, hint, our show. To give, go to donate.npr.org and then add a slash in viz if you're so inclined. That's donate.npr.org slash invis.

When you donate, you support journalism at our show, NPR's news magazines and desk, and other great NPR podcasts like Code Switch, ThruLine, Louder Than a Riot. There are so many great NPR podcasts. Thank you. Thank you for your support. Okay. On to the show. From NPR, this is Invisibilia. I'm Kia Myakonitis. And I'm Yo-Ae Shaw. So, Yo-Ae, it's the holidays. How are you feeling?

I'm feeling pretty good. I'm excited for some time off and, you know, just seeing some family and overeating. A lot of overeating. I'm excited about that. Not gonna lie. The food of the holiday season is a highlight.

It is. It really is. I actually, I love the holidays. I mean, it helps me battle the early sunsets and lack of daylight and cold weather. Like, the holidays gets me through it. But I totally also understand that, you know, like, the holidays can be complex. There's the whole family piece because sometimes the holidays feel like they're filled with the people you love. And other times it feels like the holiday is really marked by who's not there. Yeah.

Mm, totally. And there's been just so much loss in the last few years, collectively and individually. Which brings us to today's story. It's about that feeling of absence, which can be so heightened around this time. Sometimes we miss people because they passed on.

But what happens when our loved ones are still here and they start to feel like strangers? This story comes from B.A. Parker. You may have heard it before. It first aired in 2019. It all began when two people Parker loves started to become unrecognizable to her. And so Parker did something to try to hold on to them. And stick around after the story because we're going to get an update from Parker and chat with her about the piece she made for us.

All right, here's Parker. Do you worry about sometimes when you're forgetful? Sometimes I forget. I worry about, you know, when I forget things. That's my Grams. She's 96, and she's been diagnosed with being, well, 96. So I heard you get in the new refrigerator. Yeah. Do you remember what it looks like?

I forgot, but whatever it is, I like it. On the phone with my mom the other day, she said, "I miss my mommy." And I told her, "This is your mom. It's just a different version." She didn't find it all that comforting, which I understood, because I too find myself disquieted by these new versions of people I love.

Hello? Hi, may I please speak to John Parker? John Parker. Hold on a second, please. Mr. Parker! Get up, get up, get up. What's this? Hello? Hey, Dad. Hey, baby. How are you? Fine, and you? I'm okay. About four years ago, my dad was diagnosed with stage 3 vascular dementia.

It's the second most common of the dementias. Not as glamorous as your Alzheimer's or your Lewy body. When it comes to taking the light out of a parent's eyes, it still does the trick. My dad's the one who gave me my name. Brittany. Brittany, if you ask my mom. It's girly in a generic late 80s kind of way. Like a white cheerleader on Saved by the Bell. It's Waggo by B.A. Parker. But my dad, he was obsessed with this name.

In fact, he refused to sign my birth certificate unless I was given this name. And now? Who's Brittany? That's me, Brittany. Oh, okay. He doesn't even remember it. My parents divorced when I was a kid, and he didn't live with us. Inevitably, a lot of our time was spent on the phone. I still remember six-year-old me used to call him at 2 a.m. to talk to him about what I was watching on television while the house was asleep.

Questions like, what's an opera? Is Melrose Place real? Or what's a vasectomy? He always picked up, and he always answered matter-of-factly, like I was an adult. Now, my dad's 71, and he's the one watching television. My stepmother takes care of him while he lives in a residential nursing home. His new involuntary pastime is watching Golden Girls in a living room with nonverbal residents who can't laugh at Dorothy and Sophia's antics.

I'll let you go back to sleep. Oh, I'm not asleep. I'm sitting up here at the TV, waiting for a couple of people to get here to get out of here. Oh, okay. I started recording the conversations with my dad about two years ago, after hearing nurses in the background making fun of him.

I thought, as an added bonus, I might get a glimpse of my old dad, who knew me. Do you need anything? Yes. What do you need? You. Me? Yes. And even when it started to slip, and he couldn't quite call up my name, I told myself, he knows me, but he can't form the words to say that he knows me. Like it's on the tip of his tongue, but it comes out niece, or broccoli. Hey, hey.

Uncle Skip, how you doing, dear? Hope the best for you. I love you. And you are the best. Bye, Bree. Talk to you soon, girl. After a while, I started to let go a little and make up new versions of myself. Whimsical life updates. I'd tell him I was getting engaged to a war photographer and that he and I just bought a parakeet named Geno.

Told him that I'd taken a sightseeing trip to Havana with a group of elderly nuns who'd prayed over me so he didn't have to worry about me anymore. And it worked for a while. But now it's undeniable. He doesn't remember six-year-old shaved eyebrows me or 12-year-old quiz bowl team me or fake glamorous war bride me either. More often than not,

Dad confused me with my older half-brother. Okay, you take care. I love you. All right, love you too. All right, bye-bye. Bye-bye. Who are you talking to? Who are you talking to? A few months ago, I walked into the nursing home. I signed in, and I sat next to him while he kept his eyes closed. The only acknowledgement I got from him was, yes, dear. When I went to sign out,

I noticed I'd only been there for nine minutes, and I slunk out the door in shame. Can I help you? Hi, may I please speak to John Parker? I guess I keep trying to record because he's my dad, you know? He's actually not here at the moment. And what am I supposed to do? I can't find really any version of him to hold on to. And I can't get over the fact that there's a person I'm becoming in the world that he won't know.

Hi, may I please speak to John Parker? Uh, he's out at the daycare. Hi, hi, may I please speak to John Parker? Uh, he's right now having dinner. Hello, hi, may I please speak to John Parker? Yeah, he's not understanding how to speak. Because he can't speak to the phone? Yeah, because he's a little confused this afternoon. Okay, then I'll try again tomorrow.

Hello? Hey, Grams. Hi, Brittany. With my Grams, I can feel her grasping to hold on to me, so it keeps me trying, too. She forgets what day it is or where she is or if she had dinner, but she can always find some version of me.

For her 95th birthday, I got my grandma's a journal with the hopes that she'd carry it around the house with her and write down things in lieu of remembering. She had told me that's what she'd been doing.

And then I'd come to Grammy sit and help sort out her mail, only to find that her journal was empty. Then, on the back of a Sears bill, I noticed something. February 8th, 2018.

She was writing down our phone calls on the nearest thing she could find, trying to hang on to little Brittany and trying to hang on to her teacher self, writing in her intricate, perfect cursive. She said she is keeping warm.

May 4th. Start reading the book of Ruth so I can discuss it with Brittany. She has to read it too. February 9th, 2018. I talked to Britt today. I asked her if she was making enough money to take care of herself. She said no. She needs to make more money. Truth be told, these notes broke my heart a little. Because you could see the strain. These were things that in years past she would remember so easily and not need to write down.

But here she was, trying to hold on to the version of her that took care of me. And something about that allowed me to let go and become a new thing I'd never been. The person who takes care of her. Do you sometimes get confused? Yeah. And how do you feel? Scared. Do you get to talk to anybody? Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't. Like...

With dementia, the rare moments of clarity can hit brightly and sporadically. Like finding a dollar bill in a worn pair of jeans.

On one recent call, Grams began reminiscing about a train ride me, her, and my mom took from Baltimore to Los Angeles when I was a toddler. I wake up in the morning and look out, I was sitting next to a window on the train, and it was all clear and everything. This sounds like the old Grams, the one whose memories are still sharp and vivid. I was about to hang up when Grams remembers one more thing. Well, you slept most of the night,

And then it hits me. This is how we stay connected. She summons up a piece of me I never even knew about, and I summon her back up as the keeper of family memories. It's much less lonely this way. I know those memories are somewhere inside my dad.

There are no magic words to bring him back, but once in a while, there's a melody. To fill the silence during visits with my dad, I started playing the Drifters, the 60s doo-wop group. I love this song called "I've Got Sand in My Shoes," which I know has a funny story attached to it that I can't remember, and the only person I can ask thinks he's talking to my 50-year-old brother. But not long ago, I played him the song

and I saw the hint of a smile on my dad's face. Then all of a sudden, the clouds briefly parted, and my dad started singing the words. He might not have known where he was or what day it was, but for a moment, he seemed to know who I was.

When I said, hi, Dad, he took my hand and he kissed it. And I was just his daughter, Brittany, again. Hey, Dad. Hey, sweetie. How you doing? That was B.A. Parker. Since first airing this story, Parker's dad and grandma both died. After the break, Parker will join us to chat about the story and what it's like to listen to the recordings now.

There is a lot happening right now in the world of economics. You may have heard about the president's desire for a sovereign wealth fund. If your country is small, well-governed and has a surplus, it is probably a good idea. We are not any of those. We're here to cover federal buyouts, the cost of deportation and so much more. Tune in to NPR's The Indicator from Planet Money.

There's been a lot of attention on loneliness lately.

16% of Americans report feeling lonely all or most of the time. The former Surgeon General even declared a loneliness epidemic. On It's Been a Minute, we're launching a new series called All the Lonely People, diving deep into how loneliness shows up in our lives and how our culture shapes it. That's on the It's Been a Minute podcast on NPR. Planet money is there. From California's most expensive fires ever. That's my home home, yeah.

Grew up there. It's ashes. To the potentially largest deportation in U.S. history. They're going to come to the businesses. They're going to come to the restaurants. They're going to come here. Planet Money. We go to the places at the center of the story. The Planet Money podcast from NPR. So B.A. Parker is in the studio with us today. She recently became a co-host of Code Switch. And some of you might remember she used to work with us.

Hey, Parker. Hello, ladies. Parker, welcome back. Thanks for having me.

So we know, Parker, that you lost your dad and your grandma within a year of each other shortly after this story came out. And we can only imagine how difficult that was. And we're really sorry. Yeah, we're so sorry. Oh, thank you. And I know that they both played like a really big role in raising you and making you who you are. And then you started recording them about like four years or so before they died.

It's such a beautiful portrait of them, but like in this way that can also feel, I imagine, maybe a tiny bit painful or difficult. What is it like to sort of remember them in this very specific way? I mean, I started recording them because they both had dementia and there was this feeling that like time was running out.

And with both of them now gone, they are, you know, they are priceless. These phone calls that I have with them, especially last year. I mean, my dad passed away Christmas of 2020 from COVID. And three months later, my grandmother passed away. So there was like a three-month stretch there where I was just like in charge of a lot of like funerals.

But being able to lay in bed and be able to press play and play a conversation I had with my grandma like a year before. Really, I mean, here's the thing. If you want to sob in your bed, take it straight to Teartown. Straight to Teartown, put the earbuds in and just pretend that you're on the phone with your grandma. You know, I think that

When we lose people, it's a thing to go back to photos because I feel like lots of people have photos of loved ones. But audio recordings, not so much. I'm wondering, did it feel different listening to those audio recordings than looking at photos of your grandma and dad? Oh, for sure. I mean, when I...

Immediately after she had passed away and I was in bed, I turned on the phone calls. It was kind of like she was there. I was on the phone with my grams. She's like, oh, I'm watching Dr. Phil and eating a sandwich. But I had also moved away. So most of my interactions with my dad and with my grandmother changed.

or through the phone. So it was kind of how our relationship was at this point as an adult. And also, she has like a sweet old lady voice, and you can't really see a sweet old lady voice in a picture. Yeah. Were these interviews or were they just casual conversations? And if they were interviews, do you feel like you learned something different by having this type of engagement with them?

I mean, they were more so like they're mostly casual conversations. I wasn't really interviewing them. I think it wasn't until there was a conversation that we used in the story where my grandmother finally kind of talks about her dementia a little bit. And I'm like, how do you feel when you forget stuff? And she goes, I'm scared. And that was the first time I'd realized like no one had ever asked her that.

Like, what went through your mind when she said that? Oh, I started crying. Like, I was just like, oh, no. I mean, my grandmother, I lived with her for a very long time. We took care of each other. And as someone who is, like, basically like your second mom, to be like, oh, I'm scared. And there's no way to—there's nothing I can do aside from being a comfort person

You know, she's scared, yes, but, I mean, I think I say, "I got you. Like, I'm with you. That's, you know, all that I can do." You know, I'm her grandkid, and I was there to, like, you know, put a blanket on her and to sit with her and read with her. With her dementia, she just, for the most part, she sat in, like, this green, like, old-school '70s green swirly chair and looked out a window to look at, like, the birds and the trees and the cars that went past.

because that was all she could, like, really do. And, you know, sometimes she would—I knew that sometimes she would cry. Like, she'd be in a room by herself, and she'd just start crying. And I had to, you know—she liked talking to me, so, like, Grams, why are you sad? What's going on? And she's like, oh, I just, you know, I miss people. I miss everybody.

Um, cause I mean, she was 98 and my grandfather had passed, like all of her brothers had passed. She had a sister that passed, like she missed her parents. Yeah. She missed all these people and she couldn't really articulate that feeling. So yeah, like I learned a lot about her. I learned a lot. I didn't, I mean, I didn't, my poor dad, I couldn't really, um, his dementia happened so quickly. Um,

I have a brother who is much older than me, and so I have to send him messages to kind of get my brother's memories. And he'll tell me a story about dad or something because he had a significantly longer time with him than I did. Yeah.

It's interesting because, so like I did a story about trying to communicate with my grandpa a while ago. And we had a communication issue because he only spoke Mandarin Chinese and I speak very, very, very, very poor Mandarin Chinese. And we just had never had a real conversation. And by the time I got to doing the interviews there,

Like I was too late. I stopped trying, essentially. Like I stopped recording with him. But like you kept, like that was your entry point for this story. And you were able to see inside a little bit, you know, her emotional experience of dementia and aging. And I'm wondering, does that make you, what does that make you think about aging yourself in the future? Yeah.

Um, when the story came out the first time, I had a friend that asked me, Parker, are you scared of getting dementia? I was like, yes, you're the first person. You're the only person who has asked me that. And I get like, I don't know, I get nervous. I get concerned about it. But I think the story forced me to confront it. Yeah.

I just watched this documentary called The Last Movie Stars, and it was about Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. And I think in the early 90s, Joanne Woodward made a TV movie about a woman who had early onset Alzheimer's because Joanne Woodward's mother also had Alzheimer's. And now, you know, currently in 2022, Joanne Woodward has Alzheimer's and couldn't be a part of the documentary anymore.

But she got to make this movie to, you know, empathize and understand and also in a way sort of prepare. Wow. So having this story kind of, oh God, what if like there's, I had a terrible thought of like some kind of banquet that they do like a history of like my work or something.

And they show this and then I'll be... Don't go that far. Like in my 80s with the mission. Don't go that far into the future, Parker. Let's stay here. Don't go that far. We're still in 2022. Oh, no. It does feel like so much understandably comes up for you with these recordings. And you said you still revisit their tape, even conversations that didn't make it into the story.

And we hear you have some of those to play for us today. I do. So the first clip is a phone call that I had with my dad in November of 2017. And I had visited him a week before at the nursing home that he was at. And this is one of the last few times he was still a fairly coherent dad. Where are you at?

Remember, I live in New York now. Huh? Remember, I live in New York now. You're in New York? You really? Yeah. How do you like it there? It's not bad. It's cold. Oh, how long are you going to be there? Well, I've been there since July. Okay.

Okay. So I'll be there. I'll be here for a while. Oh, okay. Remember, I worked for a radio show. Huh? Remember, I worked for a radio show. Oh, you did? Yeah, remember, I came to visit you last week. I remember you telling me that. And I played my story for you. Oh, that's wonderful. That's wonderful.

You sound good, too. Well, thank you, Dad. I love his, that's wonderful. Like, that is just pure, oozing with pure parental pride. Yeah, I had gotten my first story ever on the radio, and so I went to visit him to play it for him. But I do kind of like, like, even in his kind of haze, like,

Like, he doesn't know what's going on, but he's like, my kid's still great. Yes. Yeah. Like, when in doubt, I'm proud of you and I love you. There you go. Go with the old standards. Absolutely. Okay. Let's talk about the second clip. What you got? So the second clip is a phone call that I had with my grandmother. It was two days after Christmas and I had to leave home. I had seen my family for the holidays and I had to go back to work, like back to New York really immediately. Right.

And so I had to, you know, I called to let my grandma know that, you know, I'd made it back to New York on the train safely and that I missed her and all that kind of stuff. So this is me and her talking. It's cold up there? Boy, is it. It sure is cold. You wrapping up good? Yes, ma'am. What about sleeping? That too. You got heat in your room? Yes, I do. I have heat.

It does have like a song-like quality, like the old standards between, you know,

You and your grandma of like, are you warm enough? Are you eating enough? Are you safe? Yeah, just a very specific type of love. I was just talking to one of my friends who's a new mom and she was like, that's like a mother. Like you're any sort of caretaker who's caring for something small. It's like you're doing that to keep them healthy. And it's a hard instinct to turn off. Like it brings her comfort, but it also is like a really beautiful demonstration of love that someone cares to that detail of like, are your socks warm though? Yeah.

Yeah, because at the end of the call, I had a cold and she heard me cough. And she's like, see, that's because you're walking on the floor barefoot. And I was like, you're killing me. You're killing me. But, you know, she was a sprightly lady before, like, dementia got really bad. So every once in a while, you know, just to turn on a phone call where she's like,

Are you wearing socks? Are you warm enough? How are you feeling? Like, you guys are like, be careful out there. Like, I really miss that. I think they say about the loss of, like, a grandparent or a parent is the grief is for the loss of the parent, yes, but also the grief is for, like, the child.

No one ever is going to love you like those people. And so, like, I remember a Christmas, like, four years ago when I started recording, a Christmas afternoon, I had taken a nap on the couch. And I looked—I was kind of asleep. I woke up because I felt like someone was standing over me. And I realized my grandma was putting a blanket on me. And I'm like, you know, I'm like a 30-year-old woman. And my grandma put a blanket on me. And I just started—

I was getting tucked in and I started crying to myself. I was like, oh my God, no one is ever going to love me like this old lady. So like I think of those kind of things and having these phone calls kind of helps soothe that a little bit.

Well, thank you so much, Parker, for that beautiful story and for talking to us about it. Of course. It's my pleasure. See you later, Parker. Have fun at Code Switch. Yes. Everyone, please listen to Code Switch. It's so good. New episodes out every Wednesday. And listeners, if you want to take a page from Parker and record your loved ones this holiday season, we have links to tips and resources. There's even a whole Life Kit episode about how to record family stories, which Yo-Wei appeared in. Thanks, Yo-Wei.

You can find those resources on our website and in our newsletter. Visit NPR.org slash Invisibilia newsletter to subscribe. Yes, I've recorded family for a few stories by now.

Not to be morbid, you never know when it's too late. Seriously, do it this holiday season. It's as simple as turning on your voice recorder, on your smartphone if you got one, and recording a conversation. Yeah, like, here's how my granny somehow always gets me to cook for her. Or you could even record your favorite sounds.

Like, this is my mom shuffling aggressively with her slippers at home because she doesn't believe in wasting time. We call it the Shaw Shuffle. Okay, but don't forget to ask for consent. Yes, everybody asks for consent. We do not want lawyers after us. Happy recording.

Today's show brought back one of our favorite episodes, Love Enlapses. It was produced by B.A. Parker with help from Abby Wendell. It was edited by Hannah Rosen and Derek John. This episode was produced by Ariana Garap-Lee, Kia Miyak-Natisse, and me with help from Abby Wendell. Our supervising producer is Liana Simstrom, and our supervising editor is Nina Patuk.

Our executive producer is Irene Noguchi. This episode was mastered by Josh Newell. Our technical director is Andy Huther, and our senior vice president of programming is Anya Grunman. Theme music by Infinity Knives, and additional music in this episode provided by Jonathan Barlow. Lastly, your donations make Invisibilia Stories possible.

If you're feeling generous and you have it to give, we can always use your support. You can go to donate.npr.org slash invis. Thank you so, so, so, so much.

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