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.

John Estil Ferguson: June 27, 1924 - November 5, 2012

Ready or not

The house is finally still.  Snacks for the trip are waiting in the fridge, gas tank is filled, distractions for boredom that may set in during the long drive are tucked away in safe places, luggage is packed with the funeral clothes hidden inside.  If it wasn't for that, I could almost look forward to the trek.

Everything is ready but me.

I haven't had time to collect my thoughts.  It's all surreal.  How could it be possible that when we drive down that long lane from the highway, pulling into the familiar and welcoming house full of memories that she will not be inside?
The house (that prior to the pavilion) where people always gathered in the yard on a summer's evening or in the Music Room where the younger set chose to congregate (or chase the younger cousins around pretending there were "were-wolves" outside, scaring them half to death) while the older ones might chat for hours (retelling the wild and every-time-retold-more-hilarious antics of some particularly rowdy boys of yesteryear) in the cozy little kitchen, flowered chairs and long-corded phone on the wall, fridge and cupboard always open, coffee always ready, table laden with cookies and goodies.
When she wasn't busy "fixing you something to eat" and music was on the agenda for the evening, occasionally she could be persuaded to join in at the microphone in her quiet but sure alto harmony, "Oh Beautiful Star of Bethlehem" rings in my ears, reminding me of the tender Tennessee Christmas I spent with my dear ones.  (That was my one request during my recovery after the car accident that nearly claimed my life.  And my dad kept that promise he made to me in the hospital that fall---that we'd go to Tennessee for Christmas!)
How could it be that she won't be there to greet us with her soft smile and warm hugs?  Family meant everything to her.  She loved her own and she'd often say of dear friends "I love them like their my own."  Her mind sharp and clear, how will we be able to recall half as much family history as she saw in her lifetime?
I'm so thankful for the last times I saw her that I pulled up a stool beside her chair and listened intently as she relayed some of the same old familiar stories and some ones I'd never heard before.  This last reunion time was a gift; we didn't expect her to be with us still and yet she was!  Somehow I knew it would be the last.  I'm so thankful she laughed and I'm so thankful for the words we whispered to each other at our parting that are too precious to share.
Maybe I'm not ready to face what these next days hold, but I do so with a full and thankful heart for the sweet memories.  Are we ever ready to say goodbye?  The stories, the tributes, the remembrances may trickle from my mind in the days to come, just the beginning of honoring all that she was, and all that she will continue to be---like none other---vibrant and full of life in our minds,
In the words of my brother, she never seemed to act her age but she has "stepped across time and entered into eternity and the arms of Jesus.  You will be missed but I know you are now forever free and forever young but best of all you are with Jesus.  Thank you, Jesus, for bringing her home gently."  (Larry Ferguson)  

September 2, 2012

I stopped mid-sentence and left the conversation quickly.  Were my eyes playing tricks on me?  I nearly ran across the crowded lobby, not caring who I pushed out of the way.  It seemed as if the multitude parted and the light was brighter right where he was standing, smiling right at me.  Clad in the kelly-green polo with the little yellow alligator insignia, the shirt stretched tight over his healthy round belly (that shirt always was a size too small!).  He wore glasses from a few years back and held  a styrafoam coffee cup in his left hand where I knew his crooked index finger would be visible.
"What are you doing here?"  I asked incredulously.
"I drove here from the nursing center."  He spoke the words but it wasn't actually his voice somehow.  There was a part of me that did want to hear his voice.
His answer didn't really matter to me, as I hung on his neck, for if I stopped to think about it, I knew what he said couldn't possibly be true.  All that mattered was that he was here.

It was only a few seconds that he appeared in my dream, whole and healthy, but I am so thankful to have seen him that way.  Hours later, I sat beside his chair, as he silently watched me and smiled twice at my children.  I did want to hear his voice, but it was not to be on this visit.  However, my sentiment remains the same, dream or reality---all that matters is that he is here.