For nearly ten years, I've lived without contact from my parents. I raised my children, adopted two more, started a career. I lived a life void of family drama (on my side at least). After the many years of trying and failing, I came to the conclusion that a relationship with my mother was simply not to be. It took time, but eventually my father fell into line with my mother's wishes and that relationship was fracture as well.
Ten years is a long time to be silent.
My father has Alzheimer. The VA moved him into memory care after he became violent during an emergency room visit. I was relieved to learn he was no longer living at home, being cared for by my 72-year-old mother, who has a heart condition, and my alcoholic, younger brother. The logical adult in me knew that he was no longer safe at home, nor were my mother and brother.
I wanted to see my dad, but also dreaded the thought. What if he didn't want to see me? What if he was violent? What if my mother was at the facility when I arrived and wouldn't let me see him. So many what ifs.
It took two weeks to build up the courage. I had plenty of time to chase down scenarios in my head during the 35 minute drive. My stomach quivered in nervousness, blood pressure higher, anxiety seizing my every thought. No one can race down a path of made up drama faster than I can.
I arrived to find the parking lot deserted. A cool breeze followed my steps to the front door. I willed myself to be calm. What will be, will be. Stepping inside I found the reception area dark and empty. I waited, hearing voices in a back room.
"Hello?" I called out.
An employee, wearing a blue collard polo shirt, greeted me and asked who I was there to see. I gulped and told her my father's name. I had suspected that my mother had neglected to put me on the visitation list or, more true to form, had informed the staff that I was not allowed to visit at all.
"He might be in his room, " she smiled and punched in the door code.
There was no list, no ID check, nothing. The heavy door opened and I explained that I hadn't been to the facility to visit before and I didn't know where my father's room was. I felt small, like a little girl whose been allowed into the teacher's break room and doesn't know what to do next. The employee smiled and led me into the residents dorm area.
We walked to my father's room. His picture stared at me from the wall. Sad. Lonely. Unsure. I quickly skimmed the paragraph about him, where he was born - they had mistakenly listed his state of birth as California, but he was born in Colorado. His military service: US Air Force. It informed everyone that he liked to keep to himself...surely not! Not my father! My, "life of the party" father? The man who always had an exaggerated story to share? The description went on to say that he would talk to anyone if they talked to him first.
His room was empty.
We continued down the hall, rounding a corner where a group of residents watched television. No one looked up as we passed. As we headed towards the dining area, I saw him. I knew him from the way he sat and the funny hat on his head. My father loved hats! His back was to us but I could see he was carefully holding a mug of cocoa. My guide announced our arrival in a voice that was too loud, too lively, too bright.
"Jerry, I've brought you some company."
I looked into the eyes of my father. Eyes that I had not seen in ten years. I looked longingly for recognition. He looked back at me without emotion. My face triggered no response.
"Do you know me?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He shook his head, eyes blank, weary.
"My name is Ann." I waited, but there was no memory of me left in his mind. I took his hand and leaned down closer to his face.
"I'm your daughter...."
Instantly, his eyes widened and he said, "Really?" and he began to cry. I cried for the ten years that I lost. I cried because he didn't know me. I cried because he was not the man I remembered. I cried because I knew when I left that he wouldn't remember that I had been there.
He has lost most of his verbal skills and barely spoke above a whisper. I showed him a photo that I had brought for him of my children, his grandchildren. He appeared surprised to have four grandchildren. I pointed at each one, "This is John. This is Crystal. This is Kayleen and here is Allison." He asked how old they were, he asked what job they had. He laughed when I said that Allison is a pain in the ass because she's 16. He cried when he learned John is Pastor.
He tried to tell me things, but the words wouldn't form in his brain. My father became frustrated and rolled his eyes. I couldn't help but smile because I had seen that expression on his face before. It felt good to glimpse the man he had been, if only for a moment. I hold that expression close in my heart, because now I know where I get my eye rolling tendencies.
We cried and wiped our tears. He held my hand, rubbed my back. My poor father, so lost, tried to put me into a place that was familiar, but couldn't find one. He told me he was married and I smiled and showed him a picture of my mother and him from my wedding,
"Isn't mom pretty?" I said.
He shook his head, tears falling again.
The next 45 minutes followed the same pattern. We rediscovered the photo I'd brought three or four times. Each time he chuckled at my joke about my smart-ass 16-year-old, then he cried to learn his grandson was a Pastor. He tried to tell me a story about the police who had come to his house last night and how he'd told someone to "get the hell out". We cried. We sat together, side by side, clinging to a memory that was already lost.
I told him I loved him and he cried as I choked back the hysteria that was threatening to escape. I kissed his face and repeated the words over and over. A small, frail attempt to erase the years of silence.
I held him, his bony shoulders poking through heavy, grey sweatshirt. I whispered that I loved him again and again. I kissed his cheek and wiped his tears. My father held me with the little strength that he had and told me he loved me too.
I promised I'd visit again soon and he shook his head. The visit had been hard for him. He was tired. With one last squeeze of his hand, I turned and walked blindly away. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten into the dining room and I seemed unable to locate an exit. None were clearly marked for good reason. At last I stumbled upon an employee in a blue polo and asked directions. She was kind and led me to the door, explaining the lock code, which I forgot instantly, and asked if I was okay.
Without breathing, I shook my head yes and walked into the reception area. It was dark and empty. I bolted for the front door. I didn't make it to my car before I started sobbing, gasping for breath, heart pounding, hopeless and sorrowful.
I remember as a little girl, standing on my father's feet as we danced around the living room. I remember the Christmas I received a shiny, blue track suite (they were all the rage in the 70's) and my father received a black dress suit, with a matching fedora. I still have the picture of us, standing side by side in front of the Christmas tree. I remember the years my father drove truck and the trips I got to take with him, sleeping in the sleeper cab that 18-wheeler's have. I recall trips to Montana and Wyoming to see family, his gigantic vegetable gardens and how he always smelled like spearmint gum, aftershave and beer.
I recall a time when the neighborhood bully was picking on one of my younger brothers. He'd pelted him with pine cones until he cried. I punched the bully square in the nose, bloodying it. My mother was horrified. My father was proud. So very proud of his little girl. He also made me apologize to the bully and his grandmother.
My father wasn't a good husband, he cheated, he lied, but he was a good father. I was his princess in a family of boys.
The man I knew as my father is gone. Alzheimer's has taken his memories, his speech and his understanding of the world. Eventually, it will take his life.
I regret that I let ten years go by without a word. I regret that I wasn't a bigger person and I didn't fight harder for my relationship with my father. In the end, no one wins.
It would be so easy to sink down into the sorrow of what is lost. I can feel the cold, angry, thorny thoughts try to push into my mind. It would be so simple to let the weeds of accusation and misplaced pride take over my life. So easy.
I've learned that bitterness can have no place in my life. I cannot let it swallow me. I have to give this and all my regrets over to God. It's how I find peace and how I will find the strength to see my dad again.
I love you dad.
My father has Alzheimer. The VA moved him into memory care after he became violent during an emergency room visit. I was relieved to learn he was no longer living at home, being cared for by my 72-year-old mother, who has a heart condition, and my alcoholic, younger brother. The logical adult in me knew that he was no longer safe at home, nor were my mother and brother.
I wanted to see my dad, but also dreaded the thought. What if he didn't want to see me? What if he was violent? What if my mother was at the facility when I arrived and wouldn't let me see him. So many what ifs.
It took two weeks to build up the courage. I had plenty of time to chase down scenarios in my head during the 35 minute drive. My stomach quivered in nervousness, blood pressure higher, anxiety seizing my every thought. No one can race down a path of made up drama faster than I can.
I arrived to find the parking lot deserted. A cool breeze followed my steps to the front door. I willed myself to be calm. What will be, will be. Stepping inside I found the reception area dark and empty. I waited, hearing voices in a back room.
"Hello?" I called out.
An employee, wearing a blue collard polo shirt, greeted me and asked who I was there to see. I gulped and told her my father's name. I had suspected that my mother had neglected to put me on the visitation list or, more true to form, had informed the staff that I was not allowed to visit at all.
"He might be in his room, " she smiled and punched in the door code.
There was no list, no ID check, nothing. The heavy door opened and I explained that I hadn't been to the facility to visit before and I didn't know where my father's room was. I felt small, like a little girl whose been allowed into the teacher's break room and doesn't know what to do next. The employee smiled and led me into the residents dorm area.
We walked to my father's room. His picture stared at me from the wall. Sad. Lonely. Unsure. I quickly skimmed the paragraph about him, where he was born - they had mistakenly listed his state of birth as California, but he was born in Colorado. His military service: US Air Force. It informed everyone that he liked to keep to himself...surely not! Not my father! My, "life of the party" father? The man who always had an exaggerated story to share? The description went on to say that he would talk to anyone if they talked to him first.
His room was empty.
We continued down the hall, rounding a corner where a group of residents watched television. No one looked up as we passed. As we headed towards the dining area, I saw him. I knew him from the way he sat and the funny hat on his head. My father loved hats! His back was to us but I could see he was carefully holding a mug of cocoa. My guide announced our arrival in a voice that was too loud, too lively, too bright.
"Jerry, I've brought you some company."
I looked into the eyes of my father. Eyes that I had not seen in ten years. I looked longingly for recognition. He looked back at me without emotion. My face triggered no response.
"Do you know me?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He shook his head, eyes blank, weary.
"My name is Ann." I waited, but there was no memory of me left in his mind. I took his hand and leaned down closer to his face.
"I'm your daughter...."
Instantly, his eyes widened and he said, "Really?" and he began to cry. I cried for the ten years that I lost. I cried because he didn't know me. I cried because he was not the man I remembered. I cried because I knew when I left that he wouldn't remember that I had been there.
He has lost most of his verbal skills and barely spoke above a whisper. I showed him a photo that I had brought for him of my children, his grandchildren. He appeared surprised to have four grandchildren. I pointed at each one, "This is John. This is Crystal. This is Kayleen and here is Allison." He asked how old they were, he asked what job they had. He laughed when I said that Allison is a pain in the ass because she's 16. He cried when he learned John is Pastor.
He tried to tell me things, but the words wouldn't form in his brain. My father became frustrated and rolled his eyes. I couldn't help but smile because I had seen that expression on his face before. It felt good to glimpse the man he had been, if only for a moment. I hold that expression close in my heart, because now I know where I get my eye rolling tendencies.
We cried and wiped our tears. He held my hand, rubbed my back. My poor father, so lost, tried to put me into a place that was familiar, but couldn't find one. He told me he was married and I smiled and showed him a picture of my mother and him from my wedding,
"Isn't mom pretty?" I said.
He shook his head, tears falling again.
The next 45 minutes followed the same pattern. We rediscovered the photo I'd brought three or four times. Each time he chuckled at my joke about my smart-ass 16-year-old, then he cried to learn his grandson was a Pastor. He tried to tell me a story about the police who had come to his house last night and how he'd told someone to "get the hell out". We cried. We sat together, side by side, clinging to a memory that was already lost.
I told him I loved him and he cried as I choked back the hysteria that was threatening to escape. I kissed his face and repeated the words over and over. A small, frail attempt to erase the years of silence.
I held him, his bony shoulders poking through heavy, grey sweatshirt. I whispered that I loved him again and again. I kissed his cheek and wiped his tears. My father held me with the little strength that he had and told me he loved me too.
I promised I'd visit again soon and he shook his head. The visit had been hard for him. He was tired. With one last squeeze of his hand, I turned and walked blindly away. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten into the dining room and I seemed unable to locate an exit. None were clearly marked for good reason. At last I stumbled upon an employee in a blue polo and asked directions. She was kind and led me to the door, explaining the lock code, which I forgot instantly, and asked if I was okay.
Without breathing, I shook my head yes and walked into the reception area. It was dark and empty. I bolted for the front door. I didn't make it to my car before I started sobbing, gasping for breath, heart pounding, hopeless and sorrowful.
I remember as a little girl, standing on my father's feet as we danced around the living room. I remember the Christmas I received a shiny, blue track suite (they were all the rage in the 70's) and my father received a black dress suit, with a matching fedora. I still have the picture of us, standing side by side in front of the Christmas tree. I remember the years my father drove truck and the trips I got to take with him, sleeping in the sleeper cab that 18-wheeler's have. I recall trips to Montana and Wyoming to see family, his gigantic vegetable gardens and how he always smelled like spearmint gum, aftershave and beer.
I recall a time when the neighborhood bully was picking on one of my younger brothers. He'd pelted him with pine cones until he cried. I punched the bully square in the nose, bloodying it. My mother was horrified. My father was proud. So very proud of his little girl. He also made me apologize to the bully and his grandmother.
My father wasn't a good husband, he cheated, he lied, but he was a good father. I was his princess in a family of boys.
The man I knew as my father is gone. Alzheimer's has taken his memories, his speech and his understanding of the world. Eventually, it will take his life.
I regret that I let ten years go by without a word. I regret that I wasn't a bigger person and I didn't fight harder for my relationship with my father. In the end, no one wins.
It would be so easy to sink down into the sorrow of what is lost. I can feel the cold, angry, thorny thoughts try to push into my mind. It would be so simple to let the weeds of accusation and misplaced pride take over my life. So easy.
I've learned that bitterness can have no place in my life. I cannot let it swallow me. I have to give this and all my regrets over to God. It's how I find peace and how I will find the strength to see my dad again.
I love you dad.
1 comment:
My heart breaks for you, my friend. I am actually crying tears as I read your sad and yet beautiful story. God bless your dad, you, and... your mom.
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