- Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don't necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk.--Northern Exposure, Three Doctors, 1993
Dad still remembers me, he amazes me in conversation once in a while by remembering exactly when I was born and when his father died, but not remembering his sisters who visited. Our last conversation we talked about Easter Sunday when my brother and his wife and the wonderful little grandson were coming. Except...he couldn't remember who it was that was coming, just "alot of people, which means a big day." He can't remember words, words were his best friend. I credit my love of reading to my Dad, and now he can't remember lots and lots of words. Or what time it is, or how to get home if he goes too far walking the dog (she brings him home he says and she probably does), he can't drive any more or work in his woodworking shop.
His sense of humor is intact, and there are other things that are very "Dad-like" but I know I am experiencing the long goodbye. So counting blessings of what is still there, accepting what is, that is the mission for me. I don't have to like it though, nobody said that.
6 comments:
Its tough, very tough. We lost my grandmother to alzheimers and it was just awful. Enjoy the time you have with your dad, especially the good days where the light shines thru just a tad brighter.
I'll keep you in my prayers.
Sending prayers and thoughts of consolation and comfort your way.
Bon, does he have Alzheimer's or another diagnosis? I am terribly sorry. It's hard. My dad has endured, and so far survived, many strokes and heart attacks. Each one takes a little more of him away. He often looks right through me with a confused look for a moment, until it dawns on him who I am. It's not something that feels normal or right. Parents are not supposed to forget who we are... or even worse, who they are.
I am so glad that you do have your father's writings and the knowledge of what an amazing man he is.
It reminds me of my favorite poem by Dylan Thomas (you probably know this one):
Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Thanks to you all, I'm not exactly the most "uplifting" person recently. It seems the things I am pondering lately are hard cases.
My mother just found out that her mother is facing dementia or alzheimer, they are hoping to have a definative diagnosis later this month. sigh. so starts like you put it the long goodbye.
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