Memory Collecting

Earlier today I was privileged to attend the memorial service for a client of mine, during which his children and grandchildren recalled the many colorful events and heartwarming moments that they had shared with  him.   They spoke of how right up until his death, at age 92, this gentlemen had touched them in so many ways, and continued to bless them with love and affection.

As I sat listening, I couldn't help but think about odd it is going to be when I am someday in that position of remembering my father.  My husband, Mike and I, had talked about this recently as well.  While there are so many wonderful times, they seem so long ago.   The past ten years have been dotted with a handful of bright memories, but there have been so many surreal and dark moments it's harder to pluck them out.  

Granted, many of them are funny, but in a tragic way.  Like this holiday season, for example.  I can't quite see myself recanting this tale:   " I'll never forget Christmas 2011, when Dad came down from Mahnomen to stay in a hotel for a night to relax and swim with the kids, and when he couldn't stay another night he decided to lay down in the lobby of the Embassy Suites till the cops had to finally be called to haul him out."    And I probably wouldn't want to recant one of his common remarks to me, of how after 100 times of telling him that he will not be living in an apartment, he reminds me that my brother and I are the meanest kids he's ever known.    Laughable, but not in a fuzzy, feel-good kind of way.

I feel bad for my kids, because the "good" experiences they've shared with my dad, pre-injury and pre-treatment, are mere threads in an intricately woven blanket that's been wrapped around our family.   At least they have a few of these, and can vaguely remember what he used to be like when he could drive, hit tennis balls with them, carry them on his shoulders.  One of their favorite recollections is of sitting in the back of my dad's pickup truck, while he drove them slowly up and down our driveway - over and over again.  Such a simple activity, yet such a strong and lasting memory.  

I don't know when that date will come when it will be our family's turn to remember my father.  I am sure that after looking back at old photos and keepsakes and telling stories with friends and family, it will be easier to find joy in the colorful weave that is uniquely his.  My hope is that the unraveling will subside, and there will be more solid threads to to be added.

Simple Questions Without Simple Answers

"How's your dad?" From the surface, this seems like such a simple question for a friend to ask.  Little do they often realize how complicated that caring inquiry is.     It would be so nice to be able to answer, "He's doing well, thanks." Unfortunately, that's not the case.  My dad's life over the past four years has been a series of downward spirals, punctuated by small upward slopes where which seem to quickly get taken down by the force of gravity.  This destructive pattern has led my brother and I to operate in a "what next" mode.   Just when we've thought we've seen it all, my dad manages to surprise us in his drive to obtain alcohol.   Some of the worst days were prior to his injury; when you'd go over to his house and find him passed out in his house with no food, soaking in his own urine, and the furniture toppled over. But even after his injury - while living at a group home - he managed to call a cab and make it back to Maplewood, get a cash advance at his old credit union, buy booze, and gain entrance into his house to drink like the old days. He made us acutely aware of what great lengths he would go to in order to "gain" back his former lifestyle. Not having cash on hand forced him to be really creative. At his next residence, after observing vendors at Minnehaha Park selling fresh fruits and vegetables, he realized that he could take his own acrylic paintings off the wall that he used to sell for upwards of $500 and find a buyer for $25 in cash to take up the street for vodka.   Three residences later we continue to deal with his antics. The latest, a refusal to leave his room for food or medication, left his program director no choice but to call the sheriff to haul him away in handcuffs and take him by ambulance to the local hospital on the mental health unit for a 72- hour hold.   He says it was in response to his TV being broken and not being able to watch his programs in his room. I called my brother yesterday about Thanksgiving Day plans, and he was somewhat shocked that it was my only reason for getting in touch with him.  He explained that now whenever he sees my number pop up, he usually assumes it's because my dad's been involved in some incident at his residence.   I could go on and on about how my dad is doing. It changes daily, and lately not for the better.   We keep hoping that he'll reach a point of partial contentment with respect to his residence, and also accept that alcohol won't be part of that picture.  These days, we are just happy in knowing that no news is good news. When people ask me how my dad is doing these days, unless they have five or ten minutes,  I've been sticking with a more simple reply:  "He's safe, and he's sober."

Elevating the Elementary

There seems like a never-ending surplus of baby books out there to record all of a youngster's firsts - first words, steps, teeth.  Yet as my children enter the middle years of elementary school, I find them to be far more fascinating; their thoughts and actions way more worthy of jotting down to remember and reflect upon.  There's rarely a day that goes by that I'm not marveling or chuckling at their insightful and comical comments.   This weekend was no exception.  On the way to take our pup out for a run, Asher asks if there is such a thing as "cat parks."   The next day on the way to church,  Abbie out of nowhere comes up with her completely random question:  "Are humans at the top of the food chain, or are lions and bears?"  

Too me, these are precious words.  They beat the pants off of "duck" or "birdie" or whatever those first one syllable sounds were that they uttered years ago.  I'm getting a glimpse of what their expanding minds are thinking about, what's churning in there.  I'm so thankful that they are still open to asking questions, still wanting to find out the what's, why's, how's.  

It's not only Asher and Abbie's comments and questions I treasure.  Sometimes it's just simple quirky elements in their daily routines.    Like how lately Asher gets dressed, cleans his room, and pours his cereal in the morning while singing "The Nifty 50 States" song as fast as he can.  Or how Abbie will bang out "Heart and Soul" on the piano over and over and over again, altering the notes to some odd dissonant chord combination because she thinks it sounds better.  I feel like these are the days I'm really watching them grow.

So, I've decided not to fret over the kids' baby books which are nearly full, though perhaps not as complete as Hallmark intended them to be.  I'm enjoying these middle years even more, savoring the little moments which bring a sparkle to each day.

A New Season

It's been two and a half years since my dad's brain injury, and this will be the first month in that time frame that I won't see him.   After moving him in and out of three different care facilities, (the last two of which he was kicked out),  my brother and  I are feeling like he's in a good place.  And unlike the other residences, this one happens to be out of the cities.  Nearly five hours out of the cities.

My dad doesn't see it as a good place.  He wants to know "whose idea was it to dump"  him way up north in Mahnomen.  He doesn't get that he can't live alone in his own place, that he's a vulnerable adult.  He doesn't get that brain injury plus alcoholism plus diabetes requires a lot of attention - more attention than my brother and I can handle as co-guardians, and quite frankly, more than any place for seniors here in the cities.  

At 65, (or as he often will tell us "I'm 56 years old, and I can make my own decisions!"), he didn't fit in at nursing homes, where the average age of the resident was around 80.  And other more independent homes for those with brain injuries couldn't keep up with his crafty ways of obtaining bottles of vodka.    At his new residence, he and the other 25 residents who also suffer from chronic alcoholism mixed with another disability are sixteen miles from town.  Sixteen miles from the nearest liquor store.   The new place they call home sits out in the country, overlooking rolling golden farmland dotted with the occasional shimmering pond.  My dad says he's already sick of looking at cornfields, but my brother and I are relieved that he is safe, well-fed, and among people who respect and care for him.

And so begins a new season, one of more limited visits to see my dad.    A season where he perhaps will find a way to turn his attention from simply yearning for a drink, to being able to focus on the some of the things that brought him joy in the past - walks, painting, nature.    A season for me of a bit more normalcy and calmness in my own home, and appreciating the simple pleasures of being a mom and wife.