My dad turned ninety-five years old today. Nearly a century of living. His life has come full circle, from a needy, helpless infant in Nebraska to a needy, helpless infant in Utah.
A few days ago, on my way home from work, I impulsively stopped to visit Dad. I found him in the dining room of the nursing home, seated in his wheelchair, navy bib in place, gingerly mouthing his banana bread. I fed him mashed potatoes and chunks of cooked tomato, held a cup of milk to his lips, wiped his nose. I stroked his cold hands, kissed his head, hugged his bony shoulders, and I wondered--as I always do--what he was thinking. I wondered if he knew who I was, and I wept when he said my name.
I remember vividly the first time I wept for Dad, and for myself. It was six or seven years ago; he would shortly be diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. My mom told me about a conversation she'd had with him. She had mentioned buying silverware as gifts for my daughters. Dad had interrupted, "Who are Jenny and Christy and Amy?"
There were more tears when first macular degeneration, and then a sudden hemmorage, robbed him of his eyesight.
I was reminiscing on the playground a few days ago. Maybe it was the time I've spent backstage at Andrew's play lately that got me thinking about my own moment in the spotlight. I was seventeen and playing the lead role of Alice in our high school production, Flowers For Algernon. In the play, an experimental surgery is performed on a mentally challenged young man, Charlie. Initially the surgery is successful, but as the play progresses, the flaws in the experiment are uncovered, and both Alice--his teacher turned sweetheart--and Charlie, realize that he will lose all that he has gained and more. They know that the time will come when he will be unable to care for himself, that he will be placed in a facility. They decide to cherish the short time they have left together. It was a poignant experience for me, as I vicariously experienced the devastation of their loss. That day, on the playground, Charlie's words came back to me as I thought of Dad. "Please, God, don't take it all away."
There were more tears when first macular degeneration, and then a sudden hemmorage, robbed him of his eyesight.
I was reminiscing on the playground a few days ago. Maybe it was the time I've spent backstage at Andrew's play lately that got me thinking about my own moment in the spotlight. I was seventeen and playing the lead role of Alice in our high school production, Flowers For Algernon. In the play, an experimental surgery is performed on a mentally challenged young man, Charlie. Initially the surgery is successful, but as the play progresses, the flaws in the experiment are uncovered, and both Alice--his teacher turned sweetheart--and Charlie, realize that he will lose all that he has gained and more. They know that the time will come when he will be unable to care for himself, that he will be placed in a facility. They decide to cherish the short time they have left together. It was a poignant experience for me, as I vicariously experienced the devastation of their loss. That day, on the playground, Charlie's words came back to me as I thought of Dad. "Please, God, don't take it all away."
Monday night I went to see Dad again. He was agitated and kept calling for Mom. He said he needed to go somewhere, but he couldn't tell me where. Andrew and I put him in a wheelchair and pushed him up and down the hall for over an hour. It seemed to help him relax.
Mom tells me that Dad always walked the floor with me when I was an infant. She says he was the best at getting me to go to sleep.
Dad was forty when I was born, and so I don't remember him taking my brothers on fishing trips or with a full head of black wavy hair. I don't remember him serving on the school board or organizing the men to build the golf course (although I do remember plenty of golf games!). By the time I was old enough to remember, Dad had already begun to lose his hearing, which made conversation with him difficult. In fact, I don't remember a single real conversation with him.
What I do remember, is carrots.
What I do remember, is carrots.
Gardening in Wyoming was difficult. But every year, Dad planted peas and carrots. I scavenged the peas as soon as they showed the slightest degree of plumpness, but the carrots were left in the ground to be harvested as they were needed. And needed, they were, anytime I left on a school bus for a speech meet or journalism weekend or choir festival. Dad thought there'd be enough candy on the bus, and he figured his little rabbit daughter would appreciate some carrots. So, early in the morning, he'd dig them up and scrape them clean. More than once, he arrived at the school and waved me off the bus to give me a bag of carrots to eat and share.
Dad was constant, stable, and I took him for granted. I can still see him washing the dinner dishes while I chattered to Mom, scrubbing the floor of my shower, patiently waiting to take me to school on those bitter cold Wyoming mornings. "You don't have to wait; I can walk," I would insist if he mentioned the time. But he never left me, and he never complained.
It's ironic that I feel closer to him now than I ever did then.
Always content to be in the background, Mom said that he was the string on her kite, keeping her grounded, making it possible for her to soar. Mom sang at weddings and funerals and parties--and Dad listened and supported and cheered. The only time I ever heard Dad sing was on car trips, when he'd finally join Mom in singing the University of Wyoming fight song and the slightly shocking "Minnie the Mermaid."
After lunch, I took Dad to the Day Room where he was maneuvered into a specific recliner--one that he can't get out of. He hates it. I understand their reasoning. More than once, the nursing home staff has found him on the floor, crawling, searching for Mom. They don't want to chance a real fall.
"Liz, what do we do now?" he asked in a rare moment of clarity. Repeatedly, he called for Mom. Then he started to sing, "Show me the way to go home."
Oh Dad, I wish I could.
