Birthday Boys

Dad received a special gift on his third birthday...a younger brother.

The youngest two in a family of 13 children, Marshall and Virgil had many shared experiences growing up.  I loved to hear them tell stories of hilarious childhood memories.  Although I know the stories re-told were the pleasant ones and there are yet others untold of heartache and difficulty.

They depended on each other, laughed with (and at) each other,

supported each other, and even when separated by thousands of miles, oceans, America at war and different stages of life, they could always pick up right where they left off. 

They have had a bond like I've never seen.

 

 

                                                    Cheers to the birthday brothers......

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Birthday boys; Virgil an Marshall Ferguson. Perhaps Some day(in heaven) you'll have another day like this! We love you both!!

 

 

Threescore and ten (plus 10 more)

<sup>Dad always quipped that he would only live to his "three-score and ten."

(Psalm 90:10)

10 The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.

Well, Dad, you made it.  I bet you'd be surprised to know you made it to "fourscore."

Usually birthdays are for the person born on that specific day.  Obviously.  Our situation here is a little different.  Dad doesn't know it's his birthday.  He doesn't remember what birthday means.  He doesn't know the significance of the celebration- the candles, the balloons, the gifts. 

That's why it was so special to receive a gift from Dad as we celebrated his birthday. 

Dad sat through our visit in typical fashion: eyes closed (sleeping?), unaware of loved ones visiting, oblivious to his surroundings.  We talked to him (more like "talked at him") and talked to one another, enjoying our time together (even though he was an "inactive" participant.)  When he stirred from slumber, I leaned in closer. 
"I love you, Dad." 

His eyes remained closed, but a slight smile crossed his face.
"You do?"

"Yes, Dad, I love you!" 

"I love you, too," he said, "I love you, too." 

Then, like so often before, the moment was gone.  But the pleasant look lingered on his face.  And the joy was mine to savor!  I heard his voice!  A response!  He talked to me!  He knew it was me!  And he said HE LOVED ME!  Twice!   

Incredulous!  What a treasure; what a special, special gift from him!  Those words were meant for my ears and while part of me wanted to (and still wants to) keep it all to myself, those around me watching my reaction to the unbelievable, knew how happy I was to hear that simple sentiment.

Happy fourscore birthday, Daddy.  Thanks for the gift.....</sup> 

A Race to Remember

To commemorate Dad's 80th birthday, some family members teamed up to honor Dad by participating with others personally affected by this cruel disease in a 5K event called A Race to Remember.

Here's some photos of that (cold 32*) morning: 

                                                                        
                                                                   
                                           With friends:  "we're in this together"

 

 

Cheering section!! 

                                      TJ's first 5K and he smoked the competition,
                                                     finishing in 25 minutes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emily winning a third place medal!

 

 

 

 

 

We love you, Dad,

our handsome Army Soldier.

Happy birthday.

 

Veteran's Day Weekend 2013

Marshall Ferguson 11.13.1933

Aftershave

He smelled like familiar aftershave.  White-haired with a shaky smile.  He didn't mind my personal query and comments. 
"May I ask, what aftershave do you wear?  You smell like my dad.  He'll be 80 next week and he's been sick for a long time.  I really miss him...." my voice caught in my throat.
How embarrassing to act this way in front of a total stranger.
He wasn't phased a bit. 
He put his hand on my arm and quietly said, "I'm 81 and you know, I thank God every day for my health.  It is a gift." 

Land of the Living

I wonder what heaven is like....on so many levels.

It seems nearer, more real to me as many I know are already there or fast approaching it.

Today I am wondering if there's a celebration "eternity arrival day" like birthday celebrations. Grandma Berkheimer celebrating entrance to heaven on this day four years ago.  Aunt Vi's last week....can it really be that she's been enjoying the majesty of being side-by-side with Jesus for a whole year?
They are more alive now than they ever were here on earth.  

We are here, left behind, while those that called Jesus "Savior, Master, Lord" here on earth, have answered that final call to the true Land of the Living.  

Change Purse

Something about him reminded me of Dad.  (OK, more than one.)  The white hair.  The walking gait of a short-legged man.  The way he talked to me without really making eye contact.  The pleasant look on his face.  The slow Southern drawl.  I was drawn to him immediately.

And I realized that when he came to the register to pay, I completely expected him to pull a plastic change purse full of coins from his pocket.

I was a little disappointed, actually, when he didn't.

Because Dad would have.

Handsome

"I just wanted you to know,"  she said gently and quietly as she pulled me aside, "your dad was so handsome!"

My "new" friend of the last several years has never met Dad, she only knows of the path we walk today.  She has heard me speak of him, seen my tears when obstacles prevented me from getting to visit, tried to understand with me about this monster disease, listened as I've grieved the pain of losing him.

Someone else had shown her a photo of our family from the early 90s.  Dad was healthy, full-faced and smiling.

....

Thank you, my friend, for honoring my father by that simple comment.  My sudden tearfulness may have been misinterpreted for something else, but it brought such joy to hear someone else speak of him.  You blessed me more than you could know.

"The Experience of Dementia as a Journey"

"The Experience of Dementia as a Journey"
Author Unknown

I am going on a long journey by train. As I begin, the city skyscrapers and country landscape look familiar. As I continue my journey, the view reminds me of times gone by and I feel relaxed and comfortable. The other passengers on the train appear to be feeling the same way and I engage in pleasant conversation with them.

As the journey progresses, things begin to look different. The buildings have odd shapes and the trees don't look quite the way I remember them. I know that they are buildings and trees, but something about them is not quite right. Maybe I'm in a different country with different architecture and plant life. It feels a bit strange, even unnerving.

I decide to ask the other passengers about the strangeness I feel, but I notice that they seem unperturbed. They are barely taking notice of the passing scenery. Maybe they have been here before. I ask some questions but nothing seems different to them. I wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me. I decide to act as if everything looks all right, but because it does not, I have to be on my guard. This places some tension on me, but I believe I can tolerate it for the remainder of the trip. I do, however, find myself becoming so preoccupied with appearing all right that my attention is diverted from the passing scenery.

After some time I look out the window again, and this time I know that something is wrong. Everything looks strange and unfamiliar! There is no similarity to anything I can recall from my past. I must do something. I talk to the other passengers about the strangeness I feel. They look dumbfounded and when they answer, they talk in new language. Why won't they talk in English I wonder? They look at me knowingly and with sympathy. I've got to get to the bottom of this, so I keep after them to tell me where the train is and where it is going. The only answers I get are in this strange language, and even when I talk, my words sound strange to me. Now I am truly frightened.

At this point I figure that I have to get off this train and find my way home. I had not bargained for this when I started. I get up to leave and bid a pleasant good-bye. I don't get very far, though, as the other passengers stop me and take me back to my seat. It seems they want me to stay on the train whether I want to or not. I try to explain, but they just talk in that strange language.

Outside the window the scenery is getting even more frightening. Strange, inhuman-looking being peer into the window at me. I decide to make a run for it. The other passengers are not paying much attention to me, so I slip out of my seat and quietly walk toward the back of the car. There's the door! It is difficult to push, but I must. It begins to open and I push harder. Maybe now I will get away. Even though it looks pretty strange out there, I know I will never find my way home if I do not get off the train. I am just ready to jump when hands suddenly appear from nowhere and grab me from behind. I try to get away. I try to fight them off, but I can feel them pulling me back to my seat. I realize now that I will never get off this train; I will never get home.

How sad I feel. I did not say good-bye to my friends and children. As far as I know they do not know where I am. The passengers look sympathetic, but they do not know how sad I feel. Maybe if they knew they would let me off the train. I stop smiling, stop eating, stop trying to talk and avoid looking out the window. The passengers look worried They force me to eat. It is difficult because I am too sad to be hungry.

I have no choice now. I have to go along with the passengers because they seem to know where the journey will end. Maybe they will get me there safely. I fervently wish that I had never started out on this journey, but I know I cannot go back. 

"Oh, My Darlin' Clementine", cough syrup, and Old Spice

The tune floated down the hallway to my ears.  I couldn't catch the words---probably some made up words to help the school children remember math facts---and NOT the original lyrics, I hope, which are actually quite disturbing to ponder!
But I did linger a minute longer to drift back to those long car rides when Dad would have us sing along with any song he thought of, one of which, of course was always "Clementine."  He often would harmonize and if he hit a wrong note, would have to endure our good-natured teasing and howling, indicating that we inferred he was not singing, but howling like a wolf.  That teasing would nearly always end in laughter.  Makes me smile even now to think of Dad's laughter--a sound like no other!

....

My mind has been with my dear Tennessee family in recent days.  Photos of a visit to "far-flung" relatives, prayers for protection for a soldier serving in Afganistan, knowledge of a cousin's joyous and long-awaited wedding, chemotherapy treatments for another beloved, unbelievable and miraculous healing for a critically ill patient, grief for family members gone on to heaven---and the pain those left behind are experiencing, especially after more than 65 years together...I was surprised at my own tears, when in a room smelling faintly of Old Spice aftershave combined with stale cigarette smoke (ask me how I know that familiar scent!) amidst wheelchairs and walkers and the people that don't want them, but can't live life without them,  I sat beside my dad and listened to a little gospel band.  Dad would have called the band "good ole boys"---hats and toe-tapping cowboy boots and lots of guitar-picking and even a harmonica; they reminded me so much of my own *favorite* country singers and their number one fan, their proud Mama.
"I've got a mansion just over the hilltop," was the first song and I couldn't stop the tears thinking of how much she must be enjoying her mansion in that bright land where we'll never grow old....


.....


I took a swig of cough syrup right out of the bottle.  I thought about the first time I watched Aunt Vi do that herself.  I was appalled that she wouldn't "measure" out a teaspoon---how could she judge the correct dosage?  Wasn't she afraid she'd take too much?  Now I realize she'd been "down the road" a few times and didn't *need* to be accurate, her estimations were accurate enough.  I had to chuckle that now I must think I too can judge the correct amount---either that or I'm too lazy to get a spoon, which would be very much UNlike Aunt Vi.  I doubt there was a lazy bone in her body.

Singing to Dad

I took the hymnbook from the piano bench, sat as close to Dad as his cumbersome wheelchair would allow---do I sit where he can hear me or sit where he can see me?  I started at the beginning of the book just flipping through the pages and singing the good ol' hymns.

Dad always loved music---music is soothing to the soul---and they say that "hearing" is the last of the senses to remain with a person.

After quite a few songs, I think the second scan through the book, my voice was getting tired, but I got what I wanted.

A response.

Dad raised his eyebrows and looked directly at me.

Recognition of my face?  Recognition of my voice?  Approval of the music?  Doesn't matter.  I know he heard me.  So thankful for that raise of the eyebrows.