I've debated several times about writing about this subject. It's
highly personal for me. But, I tend to always imagine that no one ever
reads this blog. So I feel a small bit of bravery in posting. The
month of June has been a difficult one for me. I haven't talked about
it much.
June holds within it two special days for me. The first is Father's day and the second is my father's birthday. This year he turned 81. It especially his me hard when I thought of him and could not call to say happy birthday. The pain was compounded by the fact that Ski went out of town days later for a surprise birthday celebration for his father who is turning 75. When dad turned 80 last year, it quietly slipped by us. And this year, it was the same. I was heartbroken. Last night, I wept as I missed my daddy and all I wanted to do was give him a call.
I could have called. But I didn't. There are a few reasons why. Number one is that my father doesn't talk much anymore. He lives life as more of a bystander. More observation than participation happens. And the second reason is the fact that he really doesn't remember me anymore.
So as Father's Day approached, I felt incredibly lonely. As I scrolled down Facebook and saw the loving tributes to fathers who had passed away, I hurt. And as I saw lovely things people did for their dads, I hurt. And when my husband picked up the phone to call his father, the flood gates opened and I cried and cried. And no one quite understood.
Only a month earlier, I had gone to visit my dad. He has Congestive Heart Failure and he's not doing well. He had been in the hospital for awhile and we now know that really, there is nothing more to be done for his heart. It is very weak. So, I decided to visit so I could say goodbye....not really in words, but just by seeing him and spending time with him. The first time I walked into the room, I had expected his face to light up. But as I entered, he almost looked bewildered. And as I greeted him, I knew he wasn't sure who I was. And when he called me by his aunt's name, Marguerite, it was all I could do to keep my composure.
Where my father lives is one floor below where I spent most of my weeks at work in PA. I cared for people with Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Dementia, ALS, and people who were just aging. I loved my patients and they became my family. I shared with them about my life outside the walls, and even if they couldn't speak to me, I spoke to them as I fed them and readied them for bed. I was bit, kicked and scratched. My hair was pulled and I came home with bruises and tales from the day. And when it was time for them to die, I sat with them, held their hands, and comforted them. No matter who it was, I would stroke their hair and hold their hand and tell them that they were not alone and it was ok to die. Many times, I was the only one who would do it. Many of the girls were afraid of death and dying. So often, I would sit there alone and even stay into the next shift loving them as they died. And then I would perform the required aftercare. For me, it became a very spiritual experience to prepare them for when the mortician would arrive. In fact, I have enjoyed that part of my work so much that when my children are grown, I would like to at least volunteer for Hospice work.
All of that said, there is NOTHING that can prepare you for the day your parent forgets who you are. My father and I were quite close. I am a daddy's girl....and proud of it!! I was the only girl and we had that daddy/daughter kind of relationship. I still call him my daddy. And as I have grown older, I have learned that my compassion, humor, and impishness are all lovely gifts I have gained from my father.
I used to think that the hardest thing about having a parent with Dementia would be how all of the new people in his life would never know the incredible man that I know. My father rarely speaks now. Only yes or no most of the time. He was always so witty and smart. He was a gifted musician and filled with compassion. As a pastor, it was obvious that his greatest gift was in his care for people. The shut-ins and hospitalized people would always look forward to his visits. But I now realize that I was mistaken. The hardest challenge for me is not how other people perceive my father, but instead how he looks at me. I am someone he doesn't really know. A more distant relationship. I am no longer the daughter who married a man who reminded her of her father. I am more like a stranger who he doesn't know.
Someday, when we have both left this life, I long to see my father once again.....and see that familiar recognition in his eyes when he sees my face. I long to hear him speak to me and tell me about his childhood and the devilish things he used to do. His stories would make you laugh so much!!! And I long to hear him sing about the Jesus he loved so much. And to hear him play the trombone once again. Until then, I think I might weep at every hymn I hear. I often cannot sing as I hear my daddy's lovely baritone voice sing the notes of the old well loved hymns.
Happy Birthday, Daddy!!!
