Dad's Hands

I just spent a weekend with my parents.  My father has dementia related to his Parkinsons and the disease has progressed to the point where his words don't really make much sense any more.  There are rarely full sentences and never two sentences in a row that go together.  Conversation is non-existent because meaningful exchange is not possible.  The type of dementia he has eats away at his brain, leaving the equivalent of holes, robbing him of his ability to string coherent thoughts together.  That's the best lay explanation I can come up with.

However there are occasional moments of lucidity when he is grasping for words - when he is desperately trying to express something.  At one such point I said, "Dad, is it frustrating to want to say something and not be able to find the words?"  He looked at me with his eyes wide open and clear and said, "YES!"  He was there with me just for a moment. And then he returned to unrelated words, strange hallucinations, anxiety and mood swings.

Towards the end of my visit, as I was leaving in fact, I knelt down in front of his wheelchair, laid my hands over his which were crossed on his lap, and looked in his eyes.  "Dad, I'm leaving now.  I'm going back to Seattle to be with Dan, Sarah and Julia.  I love you, Dad.  I have enjoyed our visit and I'll miss you - but I'll be back...  I love you, Dad."  He looked at me hard as if he was trying to follow, trying to grasp the meaning of my words, trying to find this familiar place that is becoming more and more distant for him as his illness progresses.  He didn't say anything.  Just looked at me.  But I could see that he wanted to say something.  Wanted to participate in this exchange.

When was the last time I had a conversation with my Dad?  I can't remember.  This disease has been slowly taking his mind and I can't remember when we last spoke without the illness getting in the way.  There was a time in the kitchen, about a year and a half ago, during breakfast, before his meds kicked in, when we talked sweetly, and I reminded him that the reason he forgets and feels confused is because of the Parkinsons.  "Oh really?" he said.  "That's what it is?"  But what about the political sparring we used to do?  What about the long conversations we'd have about life and nature and my kids and growing older?  Once when I was in Canada on vacation on our boat, we talked for so long that I went over my long distance minutes.  I thought my husband was going to have a fit, but I didn't care.  I knew this was precious time.  But I didn't know just how precious.

Marion

5:30 a.m.  Just returned from the airport, dropping Dan off for a trip back east.  Yesterday at noon, Dan's mother, my mother-in-law, my children's beloved grandmother died.  She was 93 years old, but two days before she died had her nightly rum and lime, and this time last year she was in Scandinavia, judging and attending a dog show.  Marion Hopkins was the grande dame of the Irish Water Spaniel breeders and she, literally, wrote the book on the breed.  She was also the Grande Dame of everything she touched.  She was the most modern old-fashioned woman I know.  She held to the old ways (spare the rod, spoil the child and that sort of thing), but was very forward thinking when it came to politics, women's rights, and "just getting on with life."  The stories are stuff of legend and she has been -and will remain - iconic in our lives and our minds.

It's so hard to think about Dan arriving at her house - where she has lived since he was in high school - and her not being there.  It will feel as though she just went out to the store.  Everything will be as she left it.  93 years old and still living in her own house!  She was living proof that age is just a number.  Her steps and her life will echo through the house.  Her chair, her bed, her notes by the telephone - all signs of a life lived to the last moment.

It is little comfort, though, when well-meaning friends say "well - 93 - that's a good, long life."  Yes, it's true, but that doesn't help with the loss.  Doesn't take away the sorrow and the giant hole that her death has created in our existence.  Never to hear her voice.  Never to see her twinkling eyes.  Never to sit at her table and enjoy a meal with her (minding our manners the entire time....)!

When a person dies, the world changes - for a time.  I drove home from work yesterday after hearing the news.  It was early afternoon, and people were going about their business, walking, running, sipping coffee in to-go cups.  Life was continuing for all, but I felt a shade removed from it and wondered how someone this important to me could have passed from this world and still everyone out there was carrying on as though nothing had changed.  When I got home, Julia, my 18-year-old who has been struggling with death and issues surrounding it, her eyes red-rimmed and slightly wet, said, "I'm okay.  At first I felt numb, but then I forced myself to feel it.  And I noticed that everything is still happening.  People are still doing things and life is continuing.  But Grandma is gone and that's what is different."  Yes.  That's it.  Life does continue, both here and beyond in a way that we will not know until it's our turn. 

Sarah came home last night as well. A friend covered her shift so she could mourn and be with us.  It's good to know that my daughters have friends to care for them.  We all went to Dan's brother's apartment, raised a glass of rum and lime to Marion, Mom, Grandma - and toasted a great woman - strong, elegant, formidable - I only hope that my daughters are even a little bit like her as they grow older.  Keep her as a standard and reach for it, girls!  All will be well.