My father stares at me, with that smile, a grin really. It is not a smile that can be readily associated with a particulr feeling or thought. In a way, it is blank and, in another way, expectant—a bit like a child's, but not like a child's is pure and expressive of sheer joy. My father's smile is not joyful, but an involuntary response in every and all situations. Still, I futilely asked questions (to which he does not answer), or tell him something (that he does not understand or remember). I have not stopped initiating these exchanges: question/smile, statement/smile, though I do not expect anything different.
Although I am used to not receiving answers or having him show interest in informative statements, today I ask the question I have avoided for many months.
“Dad, do you know who I am. Do you know my name?”
There comes that same look and smile, but this time I think I see the very tiniest glimmer in his eyes that may suggest he feels he "should" know me, so I ask again.
“Dad, do you know my name? What is my name?” Nothing but that smile. Then I ask, “Do you remember?”
"No,” he says.
“Dad, do you know who I am. Do you know my name?”
There comes that same look and smile, but this time I think I see the very tiniest glimmer in his eyes that may suggest he feels he "should" know me, so I ask again.
“Dad, do you know my name? What is my name?” Nothing but that smile. Then I ask, “Do you remember?”
"No,” he says.
I am not disappointed or sad. Didn't I already know? I reach over and give him a hug, and tell him I love him. “I love you too,” he says, words he had never spoken to me in all of my 60 years. I do think in some indicernable way, he at least knows that I am a significant person in his life. I would like to think that, but I can’t be sure. If he lives long enough, there may come a time when he does not respond to me at all, or to anyone else or anything.
Some words of wisdom come to mind. From an unexpected place, a Rolling Stones' song, came: “You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well, you just might find you get what you need." And, from Marcus Arielius' Meditations came: "What we cannot bear removes us from life, the rest can be borne." As I say goodbye to my father day by day, I realize I have received what I needed. And over the years, life has given me many moments of grace and mercy allowing me to distance myself from what I could not bear, so I could manage what remained. In my father's case, his loss of memory has not only distanced him, but freed him to reveal the essence of who he is, able now to express gratitude for the care he receives, and the love that had been hidden as I was growing up.
Faded with his former self is the stress of worries, anxiety, fears, and the burden of the obligations and responsbilities of providing for his family. One of the main burdens he carried was the tragedy of the life-long addiction of my younger brother, Ronnie who died of an overdose just when my father had begun showing signs of dementia. As a parent myself, I know my father must have struggled with so many conflicting feelings of hope, disappointment, guilt, anger, despair, all with the abiding love a parent has for a child, unexpressed or not.
I am sure I have made my share of mistakes parenting, but fortunatley, I have seen my sons grow into caring, loving parents themselves, whom, I believe, do not doubt that they are loved and valued, as I once had.
I am grateful for many things in my life, especially the realization that I whisper to my father as I leave him today, and as I also said to my mother on her death bed a year ago. Hopefully, it is what my children will be able to say to me:
"You did the best you could, the best you knew how. That is all any of us can do."
Some words of wisdom come to mind. From an unexpected place, a Rolling Stones' song, came: “You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well, you just might find you get what you need." And, from Marcus Arielius' Meditations came: "What we cannot bear removes us from life, the rest can be borne." As I say goodbye to my father day by day, I realize I have received what I needed. And over the years, life has given me many moments of grace and mercy allowing me to distance myself from what I could not bear, so I could manage what remained. In my father's case, his loss of memory has not only distanced him, but freed him to reveal the essence of who he is, able now to express gratitude for the care he receives, and the love that had been hidden as I was growing up.
Faded with his former self is the stress of worries, anxiety, fears, and the burden of the obligations and responsbilities of providing for his family. One of the main burdens he carried was the tragedy of the life-long addiction of my younger brother, Ronnie who died of an overdose just when my father had begun showing signs of dementia. As a parent myself, I know my father must have struggled with so many conflicting feelings of hope, disappointment, guilt, anger, despair, all with the abiding love a parent has for a child, unexpressed or not.
I am sure I have made my share of mistakes parenting, but fortunatley, I have seen my sons grow into caring, loving parents themselves, whom, I believe, do not doubt that they are loved and valued, as I once had.
I am grateful for many things in my life, especially the realization that I whisper to my father as I leave him today, and as I also said to my mother on her death bed a year ago. Hopefully, it is what my children will be able to say to me:
"You did the best you could, the best you knew how. That is all any of us can do."
"Good bye, Dad."
My father passed away in September of 2010
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