Not the Way It's Supposed to Be

It was one of those rare mornings when I walked in to check on Dad and found Audrey was already there, doing what needed doing.  It usually doesn't happen that way because of our division of labor but it has now and then lately.  She's been working nights at her full-time job at the engineering firm so she gets in to serve and visit with Dad more often during the day than normal.

I had gone off to an early doctor's appointment and came back to find her there doing what should have fallen to me; clean-up on aisle nine.  I can't describe what I was witnessing, nor would you want me to, but let's just say, Dad is incontinent in every way it is possible to be incontinent.  Enough said!

As I walked in the door, my twenty-month-old granddaughter met me at the threshold, playing contentedly among a field of toys, unraveled toilet paper, children's books, and various kitchen utensils.  As is usually the case with toddlers in the  'take and put' stage, Brooke is a one baby disassembly crew.  Her sweet smile and gentle spirit belie her destructive power.  She does real well with the take part, but the put for her can be a bit of a challenge.  Even so, when she looked up at me and smiled, I couldn't help but smile back and say, "Hey, baby, how's the Cookie!"

I raised my eyes and followed the trail of abandoned make-shift toys to Gram, a.k.a., my wife, who stood in the next room.  At the same moment my eyes met hers, the telltale odor of trouble rolled over me like a sandstorm engulfing an Arabian village.  There was no mistaking this bouquet for anything pleasant.  I grabbed a quick lung full of air and held my breath.

There she stood, my cherished bride, alone in aisle nine, deeply engrossed in the process.  I said, "Oh... I'm sorry!"  This was not an 'I'm sorry I walked in on you' or 'I'm sorry for disturbing your work.'  This was a sincere and heartfelt, 'I'm sorry you got stuck in aisle nine.'  (I really meant it.)  She shot me a sardonic smile, the kind you might give to your spouse just before you reach into the toilet to extricate the three-year-old's latest flushing experiment.

Sensing a need to be helpful, I did what any good husband would do at such a moment.  Without hesitation I said, "Do you want me to make you an egg?"  She breathed out and half-breathless said, "Sure.  I had a half a p.b. & j. for breakfast and I could use a little protein."

This was one of those sandwich-generation moments, when helpless babies and helpless adults combine to form the perfect storm.  At our house, we call it Friday!

I hit the button for the ejector seat as Audrey shot me one last sardonic smile before turning back down aisle nine.   I fled to the safety of our kitchen to whip up the perfect scrabbled egg for my bride.

Before you come to my front yard to burn me in effigy, you should know that we both have our days in aisle nine!  Aisle nine is never a place we want to be!  Aisle nine is a place we try to avoid at all costs.   Aisle nine is where everything in us screams, 'this is not the way it's supposed to be.'  But sometimes love takes us there.  Love is like that from time to time.

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On a different day altogether, I walked in to find Audrey serving dad in a much more palatable way, bringing order to some shelves and drawers.  Dad sat contentedly, sipping on his lemon-aide.  Finding all things copacetic, I turned to walk out, but Dad held up his hand to stop me and shouted, "I thought you were dead!"

Ok!  Not the greeting I expected, but not really a big surprise.  I glanced at Audrey to get a clue.  She shrugged and returned to her task at hand.  I looked Dad in the eye and quipped, "Nope!  Not dead yet, but thanks for asking, Pop."  He was not amused and looked at me half crossly and half with a bit of concern.  It was the look he musters whenever he realizes that he is more confused than he thought.

Later that day, Dad began to call me Paul and it struck me why he thought I should be dead.  Paul was Dad's brother-in-law, his wife's older brother who had passed away many years ago.  Paul was taller than Dad and more slender, perhaps built more like me.  It made some sense.

As Audrey chatted with Dad, she realized this would be a re-discovery day for him.  The confusion about Paul's death led him to realize time had moved on and forgotten to take him along.  One by one he inquired about loved ones, slowly realizing, as if for the first time, that he was nearly alone, that most of his generation of loved-ones had already passed on.  Paul had died.  He had gotten that right.  But what about Audrey, his wife, and Frieda, his mother?  Had they died too?  He didn't know.  He couldn't remember?  He thought they were coming back for him.  Why had no one bothered to tell him?  Why was he left to find these painful things out on his own?

This was a sad day.

These were painful yet precious moments with Dad.  Painful for obvious reasons; the loss, the sense of loneliness, the feelings of abandonment.  And yet with all that there was joy.  There was joy in knowing that we were here to walk him through these dark rediscoveries.  There was joy in seeing the depth of love that remained in his heart for those he once loved, that his heart was not given over to bitter selfishness like so many lonely aging adults.  There was joy in knowing that soon Dad and Mom and Frieda would be together again, never to be parted.

There is joy because death is not the way it's supposed to be.