It's been some time since I posted about Dad's current condition.
The reason? There's really not much to say. Because Dad really does not have much to say. Recently, my brother went to visit him. When Dad saw him, he said, "hi, son."
I looked back over some old posts, at where we were and where we've come. Did I ever think then as we started this journey that only two words would be "significant communication"? Did I ever even know what Alzheimer's meant? It's not just forgetting, but it's losing everything you've ever known, and most of the time in a very irrational way. And then after that, nothing and emptiness.
When people ask me, "how's your dad?" what am I to say? They are kind in asking, but I imagine myself bluntly saying in a flat voice, "he's dying, in a slow, pitiful way." Most of the time, I politely respond, "oh, about the same." How could they know what that means? And that "sameness" is flickering down ever so slowly that I can hardly see the change until I compare now with then.
Today has been three years since Dad entered skilled care. My grief is different now. I step out. I press on. I have to. Mom also celebrated her 75th birthday without the one she loves (present tense) most on this earth. She was surrounded and honored by ones who love her. Mom has a husband and three children. She asked me for a copy of a picture taken today of "just the five of us." She frowned and corrected herself, "just the four of us."
~We live, we love, we forgive
and never give up
because the days we are given
are gifts from above.
And today we remember
To live and to love~
(Superchic[k])
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Thirty-six and half years
Leaving the quick mart today, I was caught off-guard and transported back 25 years.
It was the smell.
Stale cigarette smoke mingled with a faint scent of coffee. Honestly, it stank. But the memory it evoked was dear to my heart, the smell was almost pleasant.
It was the exact smell on Dad's clothes when he came home from work each day. (Back then, indoor smoking was permitted in public buildings.) Even though my father was not a smoker himself, he would often reek of cigarettes from the habits of his co-workers. And coffee. Oh, the coffee. Dad was a heavy drinker when it came to a cup o'joe. In fact, he was known as the "Coffee Man" at work. He supplied the coffee, creamer and sugar for the office. He replaced the coffee maker when needed. And he purchased countless styrofoam cups for all.
Dad worked hard at his job. Thirty-six and a half years at one place brought stability and security for his family. Thirty-six and a half years is a long time. Dad was faithful and dedicated. I recall many early mornings of Mom ironing his shirts. And Dad sitting at the kitchen table wearing his white undershirt while he waited. He would be reading Our Daily Bread and the Scripture aloud while she ironed there in the hallway or cooked his breakfast--bacon and eggs and potato cakes or oatmeal. And Dad never reported off. He just went to work, illness or no illness.
Dad knew from experience the value of a good job. There were some lean days financially in his adulthood as he earned his way in this world, before he settled in to this one. I wish I could hear him tell again of his post-high school days of working in the greenhouse in Cleveland with Jamie (and falling through the roof, shattering the glass) and finding jobs in Detriot with Tom Sapp, living there with his sister Berta and hitch-hiking up and down the map. And his days of selling Watkins Products, and how he unintentionally almost killed his two young sons with those very products! (The details of those stories are becoming fuzzy to me.)
Today that one short unintentional whiff of rank odor reminded me of my Dad's loyal service to his employer and what he showed by example to his family.
It was the smell.
Stale cigarette smoke mingled with a faint scent of coffee. Honestly, it stank. But the memory it evoked was dear to my heart, the smell was almost pleasant.
It was the exact smell on Dad's clothes when he came home from work each day. (Back then, indoor smoking was permitted in public buildings.) Even though my father was not a smoker himself, he would often reek of cigarettes from the habits of his co-workers. And coffee. Oh, the coffee. Dad was a heavy drinker when it came to a cup o'joe. In fact, he was known as the "Coffee Man" at work. He supplied the coffee, creamer and sugar for the office. He replaced the coffee maker when needed. And he purchased countless styrofoam cups for all.
Dad worked hard at his job. Thirty-six and a half years at one place brought stability and security for his family. Thirty-six and a half years is a long time. Dad was faithful and dedicated. I recall many early mornings of Mom ironing his shirts. And Dad sitting at the kitchen table wearing his white undershirt while he waited. He would be reading Our Daily Bread and the Scripture aloud while she ironed there in the hallway or cooked his breakfast--bacon and eggs and potato cakes or oatmeal. And Dad never reported off. He just went to work, illness or no illness.
Dad knew from experience the value of a good job. There were some lean days financially in his adulthood as he earned his way in this world, before he settled in to this one. I wish I could hear him tell again of his post-high school days of working in the greenhouse in Cleveland with Jamie (and falling through the roof, shattering the glass) and finding jobs in Detriot with Tom Sapp, living there with his sister Berta and hitch-hiking up and down the map. And his days of selling Watkins Products, and how he unintentionally almost killed his two young sons with those very products! (The details of those stories are becoming fuzzy to me.)
Today that one short unintentional whiff of rank odor reminded me of my Dad's loyal service to his employer and what he showed by example to his family.
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