Dog Days, Roller Coasters & Balloons

The house was filled with loud teenagers and balloons.  The occasion was a sweet-sixteen party -  birthday not basketball - to honor my daughter.  One of the games the teens dreamed up, Balloon Burst, involved hugging a fully inflated balloon to your chest until it exploded, all the while doing your best to maintain your composure.  The best part, they say, is watching everyone else try to keep a straight face knowing what was coming.  Some fun! 


Present at the party were about a dozen of my daughter's closest friends and a rat-cha (rat terrier/chihuahua mix), named Abigail.  Abby, a.k.a., Little Dog, is about nine pounds of pure energy, the most athletic dog in history.  I once decided to count how many times she would fetch a ball without stopping.  I gave up counting after 130 tosses and a 15 day stint on the DL for an impinged elbow issue.


Bred to hunt rats and other rodents, the rat terrier is a fearless breed.  Even though Abby has the size and some of the look of a chihuahua, her muscular build and personality show all the signs of being dominated by the aggressiveness of the terrier.  She was a fearless little dog, unlike her predecessor, Sundance, a.k.a., The Weasel, so named because her best skill was looking guilty.  Even when she had done nothing wrong, a simple, 'What did you do?' would send Sundance cowering away like a repentant sloth.  


Sundance was our yellow lab, the Everett family mascot.  She predated Abby by about eleven years and outweighed her by about sixty pounds.  She was always a compliant, meek dog, but she became verifiably disturbed after living through a large scale house remodel.  After that trauma, she was afraid of everything.  Abby was an adjustment for Sundance too.  We had to train the little dog to be submissive to the big dog.  We did that out of respect for Sundance, of course, but I suspect, somewhere in the back of our minds was the thought that, should Abby show a little too much disrespect, it could prove fatal.


I said Abby was a fearless little dog.  However, before Sundance passed away, she managed to train Abby to be afraid of just about everything.  Be afraid of the sirens and thunder.  Be afraid of the animals eating at the trash cans.  Be afraid of the dogs walking past the house.  Be afraid of cat birds.  Be afraid of the tv if its too loud.  Be afraid of trash bags if they are too quiet.  Be afraid of trash bags if they move.  Be afraid of the hose.  Be afraid of wood chairs.  Be afraid of all machines especially nail guns.  Be afraid of trash blowing through the air.  Be afraid of fans.  And my favorite, be afraid of the child safety gate.  In the end, Abby proved to be more chihuahua than we imagined.  She is now almost as neurotic as Sundance and has more than earned her thunder storm title, Shiver Shake.


Imagine the heart palpitations of the little dog during the game of Balloon Burst.  She learned fear of balloons at the sweet-sixteen party, even without help from the older and more emotionally troubled Sundance.  Her eyes were bugging out, well, even more than usual as she backed out the door saying, 'Adios, muchachos y muchachas! I'm headed back to my gig at the Taco Bell."


Before you wonder if you clicked into the wrong blog site, let me make the connection for you.  The bug-eyed look on that little dog's face during Balloon Burst that day was pretty similar to the look on Dad's face the day he came home after a week of being 'held captive' in the nursing facility.  He looked frail and tired.  He didn't want to eat or drink.  He was disinterested in everything and everyone.  And yes, he looked afraid.  It was as if he was a small orphaned child, frightened and alone, uncertain where to turn for help.


As the week rolled on, Dad did not improve.  He was totally turned in on himself.  The nurses began talking as if the end was near.  The trauma, they speculated, must have been too much, the transition had taken a huge toll.  We wandered if our trip was worth it.  Some thought out loud that he may have had a stroke.  We watched and we waited.  Like with the balloon game, as time passed, tension increased. 


Just when we were seriously debating whether to call in distant family members for last goodbyes, he just woke up.  Everything was suddenly normal again.  He ate a bowl of cereal on his own.  He drank a diet coke.  He started giving orders and talking about the kids who mugged him on the elevated platform last week.  (No, that didn't actual happen but that's normal talk for Dad!)


I called Audrey and told her the news.  She gave me an unexpected reply.


"Roller coaster!" 


I asked her to repeat herself.  "A roller coaster," she said with understated emotion.  I was a little confused and could only reply with, "Huh?"  She said, "You know, I think we need a roller coaster in the living room.  What do ya say?  We can charge admission, invite the neighbors, it could be fun!"  


It was her postcards from the edge way of saying life with Dad is a crazy unpredictable ride.  It's the sometimes upside down, sideways, seasick world of caring for a dying loved one.   It does get confusing.


Which way is up? Which way is down?  Is it time to celebrate when the balloon bursts or is it time to celebrate when the balloon doesn't burst?  Life seems so elastic sometimes.  It's squeezed right up to its very limit and then suddenly, without warning, it squirts safely away and drifts quietly back to the carpet.   


As we settle back into routine with Dad, he eats and drinks and sleeps as he always has.  To be honest, we are so very tempted to feel a bit skittish.  Like that little dog, we really dislike the presence of life's roller coasters and balloons.  But then we read Psalm 31.   In the midst of life and death turmoil, David pens these words, "my times are in your hands...be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord!"


And so we wait!    

Our Great Respite

There's this crazy moment in one of the Chronicles of Narnia films.  Two kings meet on the battlefield and decide to forego an all-out war with much blood shed, choosing rather to fight man-to-man combat, each man representing his people.  The winner takes all.

A fierce hand-to-hand battle ensues as respective armies look on.  Though Good King Peter is but a lad and less experienced in battle, he begins to prevail over the wicked king.  Here's the crazy moment; out of breath, beaten up and bruised, the evil lord raises his hand to Peter and cries out, "Respite!"

As I sat and watched this unfold, I couldn't help but laugh.  Are you serious?  I think if I were King Peter, I'd be asking a few questions like, aren't you the guy who wants to kill me?  Would you give me mercy if I were tiring?  Are you really asking me to let you catch your breath, to give you a few moments to recoup your energy, maybe check your emails, grab a dark roast with extra sugar to help you refocus on the task of killing me and stealing my kingdom?

Uhm...No!  Sorry Evil Lord! You are going down.

I guess Peter was pretty spent himself and a man of mercy, so he relents.  If you know the story, you know the wicked lord doesn't fair so well in the end anyway, as his own men conspire to kill him before battle's end.

Respite is a funny word.  The only other time I've heard the term respite is in the world of hospice care.   Like in the Narnian story, respite is a term used for the relief period granted to a battle weary soul in need of a rest, to gain some refreshment from and perspective on a relentless task.  In the hospice version, its a battle for life and love, the relentless battle to maintain the comfort and dignity of a loved one in his or her last days.

Peter, in the story, embodies the idea.  A weak, inexperienced man, yet stout and resolute, willing to stake his life to stand in the gap for those who need his protection because love has made a claim on his life and heart.

Life's evil counterpart death, like Peter's opponent, is not so willing to give respite.  Audrey watched today as her father was taken away via a hospital gurney to respite care; his five day stay in a local full-care facility.  "This is the man," she recalled, "who worked with his hands his entire life, working two or three physical jobs at once, working on his cars, building an addition on our home and now..."  

Tears came quickly as she flashed through fifty years of childhood, teen, and adult memories, remembrances of a brave and strong man, busy with toil, flush with vigor.  She told me about how she watched today as the two young EMT's worked with Dad.  They lowered him on the gurney using the ceiling lift.  They adjusted his body until he was safe and comfortable.  They lifted his arms that had fallen limp beside him and folded them gently across his chest.  They covered him with a blanket and they transported him down the ramp to the waiting ambulance.  A man who was always on the move reduced to absolute zero mobility.  Death has wrapped its tentacles around this once strong man and is pulling him ever closer.

But as Baptist evangelist Tony Campolo used to preach, "It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!"

Peter did not stand alone that day in battle.  Though he was weak and weary, Aslan was on the move and the might and strength that brought that lion king back from the grasp of death, overcame evil and the breath of Winter was forever stilled.    

Our lives are no storybook, nonetheless we stand in similar strength.  We have a good Lord who has overcome a dark Friday and now stands victorious over death, daily overcoming our weaknesses and weariness.  He is, himself, our greatest respite.  He battles against the death of our own spirits that would cause us to give way to selfish concerns.  He extends his gracious hand to us through numerous aids and volunteers who give us hours of merciful respite each day and throughout each week.

So now we get a longer respite; five days away with, well, fewer cares.

As we go we can't help but be thankful to God for his grace, first, for pouring it directly into our lives as a daily respite, because we would simply dissolve into puddles without him.  But secondly, we are thankful for the grace he sends through so many ministers of his mercy.  To the many good and kind servants at Heartland Hospice, thanks to you all.  To the friends and helpers at Friends & Helpers, thank you. To Donna for her relentless love of Dad and Audrey and to her many volunteers who give us regular Sunday respite...thank you!

It is all so very good!
  

A Down Hill Ride

If there is anything that can be considered normal with Dad's care, it's that from day to day, his care is unpredictable. Like with Forrest Gump's infamous box of chocolates, 'you never know what you're gonna get.'

I guess the most consistent aspect of life with Dad has been that it is mostly a down hill ride. When he first came to us, he walked with a cane and drove a Lincoln.  As a long-time driver for SEPTA, our local public transit authority, he loved to drive and continued to do so long after doing so was sensible. 

One day I was doing chores around the house and just happened to notice him backing the Lincoln down the drive.  Problem was, my truck was parked just 20 feet behind him.  I rushed down the drive waving my arms, somehow managing to stop him just before he played bumper cars with my grill.  I moved the truck on to the street and returned to my tasks in the house.  Some time later, I looked out and there was the Lincoln, still parked on the drive.  I went to see if he was okay.  He said, "Oh, yeah, I just didn't realize you had moved the truck already." 

Eventually, for his own safety and the good of the driving public, we convinced his doctor to keep him off the streets.  The cane morphed into a walker.  After some time we began to notice, Dad was pushing the walker forward but forgetting to move his feet along at the same pace. If you know anything about gravity, you realize this is not a good scenario, so the walker became walker-with-assistance.  Long walks got too difficult with the walker, so his favorite trips to church and Booth's Corner, a local farmers' market, became trips in a wheel chair, but he continued his walks through the house to lessen his anxiety or stretch his legs, what we affectionately termed his 'caged lion act.'  

Two years ago this month, Dad attempted to walk alone to the bathroom.  He lost his balance, fell over backward, smacking his head hard on the edge of a glass table. He spent several months in a nursing facility.  Mobility has been a major issue for him ever since. 

Today, with the help of his remote controlled electric lift chair, Dad can some times push himself up to a standing position, but just as he was forced to give up driving the Lincoln, walking has become a memory, an activity of the past.  And so the down hill ride continues.

Recently, even Dad's sitting has become less active, spending many hours each day sleeping. No requests. No conversation. No sharing of memories of days gone by.  Just the long periods of sleep, staring at the TV or into the empty space between his chair and the walls before him. 

Funny. I remember days as a young son-in-law when I thought I couldn't bare to hear another word from him.  It seemed like so much endless jabbering, bottomless pits of information about the past, his beloved hobbies, his friends, the things he'd seen and done, all words wasted on a young man too self-focused and self-centered to place on them any value or significance. 

Now his voice is mostly silent, his nervous energy gone.  Each time he speaks a half sentence or a stammering phrase, I want to reach into his heart and, by pure force of my will, pull out a memory, something to remind us both of who he is, what he's done, what role he played in the life of my wife and family.  Sometimes I succeed, in part.   But most of the stories are incomplete, incoherent, or a confused mixture of vague reality and TV land fiction.  

Like Dad, perhaps I just have to recognize that some opportunities have passed me by and are forever relegated to my past.   As it always does, time will tell.  

Voice in the Night

Somewhere in my deep subconscious mind, I heard something; a deep occasional hum or a muffled bark.  Was it the neighbors' dog at my 'garden level' window or was it the wind howling past our deck.  It was singing a haunting tune, the old Jimi Hendrix lyric, 'the wind........cries.........Mary.'   

I woke to full consciousness and lay there silently on my back for a few moments orienting myself.  "Was I dreaming," I wondered as I reached out with my right hand to see if my wife was still asleep beside me.  I touched her side and she sighed gently and rolled to her right.  I spoke aloud in the darkness, "What time is it?"   


She didn't answer.  I reached for my alarm and pushed the snooze button.  The numbers flashed to life and filled the room like neon-green lightning, burning my sleep-filled eyes.   

4:18.   

Even without my glasses I could clearly see the numbers I had feared.  I released the button and the room fell dark and silent.  I listened and I hoped.  I hoped I wouldn't hear again what I knew I had already heard.  

Then it came again, out of the blue, like the sudden glaring light from the alarm clock number, but this time I heard it clearly.  The voice moaned, "Albert!"  It wasn't the wind or a dog, my wife snoring or Jimi Hendrix.  It was a muffled voice calling my name.  "Albert," it pleaded, then fell silent.  Then just as I began to wonder if it was for real...there it was again, "Albert."  Then again, at 15 second intervals.... "Albert!" Pause....... "Albert!" Pause...... "Albert!" Pause......

I got to my feet and felt around for my emergency t-shirt and sweat pants, the ones I like to leave on the floor beside the bed, just in case.  I pulled them on as the mournful cry continued.  From the bed I left behind I  heard Audrey's voice call after me.  "Dad?" she queried.  "Yup!" I dully replied.  She rolled over to my side of the bed as if to embrace the sleep I had left behind and said with a contented smile I could feel through the dark, "Thank you."   I offered the obligatory middle of the night, "Uh huh," and made my way through the darkness to Dad's apartment a floor above. 

Dad's TV flickered silently, not unlike a fireplace, as good old Leonard Slye, a.k.a, Roy Rogers, sung a Western favorite to Trigger and the gang. 


"Good morning," Dad bellowed gleefully, happy that someone had heard his calls.  With all the mercy of a Army drill sergeant, he begin to issue my marching orders for the day.  My neck stiffened and with all the charm of  of a teenager listening to their ipod through ear buds, I ignored the orders and surveyed the situation.   


Dad sat waiting for help on the edge of his bed.  He had removed his Depends, soaked from the activity of the night, leaving them deposited on the floor at his feet.  He had pulled his TV table to his bedside.  On the table was his sports bottle - he can't really drink without a straw - the lid of which he had removed in the night.  Half of the bottle's contents were spilled on the table.  As Dad continued to issue imperatives, I instinctively reached for the bottle and began to replace the lid.  


Suddenly Dad interrupted himself and shouted, "NO!" and lunged for the bottle.  It was 4:30 in the morning and I was pretty tired but I was still able to out maneuver him.  "Why?  What's wrong with it?" I retorted, still carrying a teenager sized chip on my shoulder.  "It's poison!" came his reply.  "Poison?" I retorted incredulously.  I thought of all the stories Dad tells of being kidnapped and held hostage and left to die alone and I immediately dismissed the poisoned sports bottle as yet another improbable story.  "How did it get poisoned?," I said, now getting dangerously close to taunting him.  I was too respectful to say it, but in my heart of hearts I wanted to say, "Did Big Foot do it?"  


Welcome to my world, the world of Humility 101.  It's moments like these that reveal the true nature of my heart.  I feel sorry for myself.  I want to go back to my sleeping wife and say, "You deal with him, I've had enough!"   


Frankly, this has been a tough week for me, probably the hardest since shifting the load of  my Father-in-law's care off the shoulders of my beleaguered wife and onto my own.  This was the second night in a row Dad had awakened early in the morning, eager to get the day started, unaware of the toll he was taking on the comforts of the rest of the household.  Our afternoon volunteer was sick, leaving me alone for the day to care for most of Dad's needs and desires.  Though Dad sleeps many hours during the day, the 7 am to 8 pm shift gets relentless and sanity seems to slip away with the hours of the day as Dad continues to need help with yet another thing.  Starting the day at 4 am was just a little beyond the pale.


In spite of all that emotion, I withheld my desire to mock and asked Dad again how the sport's bottle had been poisoned.   He looked me in the eye and said, "I couldn't wait and I couldn't walk there, so I pissed in the bottle.  It's poisoned."


I looked at the bottle in my hands.  Again I thought through all the delusions.  I looked back at Dad and said, "NO YOU DIT-ENT!"   


He smiled and asked for cereal and a banana.  


As I trudged to the toilet to dispose of the mystery drink, I pondered what else the day might bring.  Perhaps this day would be best taken with a large dose of prayer.    


    

Held Hostage

It must have been Lock Up the Good Guys Day on the Westerns Channel. 


Each time I looked in on Dad, another of our heroes was being held against his will.  On Have Gun Will Travel, the protagonist was being held behind bars, falsely accused of murder.  On Law Man, the marshal and his deputy happened upon a hostage situation and became hostages themselves.  On Wagon Train, the wagon master was among a group of men on the train who, one by one, disappeared into the snowy forest, victims of a scheme to sell human beings as slaves to a hostile Indian tribe.


Not a good day for the men in white.


Call it what you will.  Coincidence.  Self-fulfilling prophecy.  Poetic justice.  Maybe it's like the scary movie thing with little kids.  Ya know, the monster's under the bed thing, only it's the 84 year old man that won't go to bed.  If they can be held against their will on TV, it could happen to me too.  Whatever the reason, the hostage scenario carried over into our real life that day, at least the real life drama that goes on in my father-in-law's mind.


By the time Dad had finished his dinner he was convinced he was being held in this place against his will.  Not unheard of, but this was an unusually difficult case.


I wish it were possible to convince Dad once and for all that this is his home.  After all, his apartment was designed and built just for his needs.  But most days, we settle for convincing him that it's simply not time to go home.  He usually responds with patience.  He is, by nature, a very gracious man.  That helps.  It also helps that he has a very short attention span.  Something he considers a major crisis now isn't even on the radar screen in five minutes.  Often a simple, 'Let's wait and see!' is the best approach.


Donna, a neighbor and friend who visits Pop regularly, had tried a more honest approach earlier on Lock Up the Good Guys Day.  Dad had been relentlessly trying to stand.


Donna exhorted him, "Stay put, Pop. Where are you going?"


"I've got to get ready to go," he replied.  They'll be here for me any minute."


She gently assured him that he was safe at home.


"See the clock and the TV Patrick got?  And look there is your Jesus picture," she encouraged. "These are all your things, in your home.  You are already home, Pop!"


He settled in his recliner, scanned her face and then each of the objects she had named.  He sighed as if suddenly realizing he was indeed the one who was confused.


"Yes, I know," he stammered.  He thought for a moment but then, clamoring back to his feet, he blurted, "But I can't walk over there so I'll have to be ready when they come for me."


It was that kind of day and the beat went on through dinner into early evening.  My goal was to get Pop into bed and then settle down myself for some time with my wife and daughter.  Yet, there was Dad, relentlessly insisting on being permitted to go home.  I used all the tricks I knew.


I was beginning to feel like I was the hostage.  I finally resorted to the strong arm tactics.  I finished my final argument on a stern note.


"This is your home!  We are going to get you ready for bed!  Okay?"


He looked squarely in my eyes, testing my resolve.  He knew I was in earnest.  His spirit broke, his aged eyes flooded with tears.  He said, "Okay."


"You know Dad," I said, "It's not that late. Do you want to go to my place and see what's going on there?"


His face brightened.  He recovered his manly resolve and he replied, "Do they have cake?"


I loaded Dad in the wheel chair instead of the bed and headed for 'my place' on the other side of the wall that separates his bedroom from our living room.  Everyone was happy he had come.  He watched.  He talked.  He laughed.  He ate cake.


After about an hour, he was partied out.  We went back to his room and got him ready for bed.  He went to sleep a free man, happy to be home again with the family he loved.


Funny! That's exactly how it ended on TV.   
     

A Winning Moment

I gave Dad his breakfast and went to another area of the house to make some important business calls.  When I returned, Dad was fast asleep, slumped over to the right in his chair, his spoon still held firmly in his fingers.  The Cheerios scattered on the dark green carpet were only outnumbered by the Cheerios resting on his chest and lap.  They were concentrated primarily just below his chin.

“Guess I should have stayed to feed you today,” I said, mostly to myself.  

I grabbed a napkin to wipe his chin and began to clean up the cereal.  Swollen to twice their original size, the little circles of whole grain oats disintegrated in my fingertips as I tried to pick them from his neck and sleeveless T.  They were still drenched in milk and had begun to dissolve into a mystical union with the fibers of Dad’s shirt. 

Feeding himself isn’t always this big of a problem.  But, as the week had worn on, he had become less attentive and conversational, more turned inside to focus on his own inaccessible world. The inability to feed himself is par for the course. 

The signs of his inward trek were typical.  Earlier in the week he had become convinced he was being held against his will.  He woke a day or two later at 5am and began calling out for help.  Before I had a chance to turn on the light or ask him what was so alarming, he began ordering the immediate removal of everything in the apartment, from the television, to the grandmother clock, to the coffee maker, to the sheets and pillowcases.

“They took everything else while you were gone,” he insisted.  “We need to get the rest out before they come back.  I can’t believe they can get away with this.”

This seems to be a cycle Dad goes through regularly.  Today he had progressed to the part of the cycle where he stops talking and struggles with small motor coordination, part of his mild Parkinson’s disease we’re told.  A slight change in his physical condition, a head cold, or trouble with his bowels for example, will set the cycle in motion.  So far, as bad as he gets during these cycles, he has always pulled back from decline and returned to his normal self.  

But even in the midst of these cycles, he has his charming moments of clarity and wit.  Last week I found the man lying on his side on the floor beside his bed.  He had tried to stand on his own and ended up on the ground. 

I knew he had fallen but in order to downplay his fears, as I rushed over to his aid I said, “Dad.  What on earth are you doing on the floor?” 

He craned his head around and with a gentle smile he simply replied, “I’m resting!”

So there I was, wrestling him into an upright position after cleaning him up from his encounter with a stubborn bowl of Cheerios.  My face is inches from his when he suddenly bursts awake.  His eyes go wide open and he says without hesitation, “We won!”

  

A little startled and having no clear idea what he could mean, I played along.  “Really? I asked.  “What did we win?”

I walked to the sink to rinse my dishcloth and returned to wipe his tv table.  His eyes fixed on me expectantly. 

I repeated my question. “What did we win, Pop?” 

Just that fast he had lost his ability to find the right words to share.  He struggled to complete a meaningful phrase and finally fell silent again and stared away into space. 

I turned to see what he was focused on.  It was the TV.  My eyes locked on the screen and I remembered I had flipped from the Westerns Channel to Comcast Sports Net while I prepared his breakfast.  I guess I had forgotten to switch it back before I left the room to make my business calls.  

We watched together as the final seconds of Comcast Sports Rise ticked away.  Was he trying to tell me about a sporting event?  As I changed the channel back to his preferred station, he mustered his strength and mental focus once again.  He looked me in the eye and proudly stated, “Baseball!”

Dad didn’t know I had watched the Phillies win 10-7 over the hated Mets the night before.  Nor did he realize that Sports Rise runs repeatedly for several hours every morning and that I had seen the same replays twice already that morning.  

What Dad did remember, some how, was that I live and breathe baseball and specifically, the Phillies.  He had gathered all his strength and mental resolve just to let me know that my team had won a game.  

Silly as it may seem, this was a real moment of care and affection from Dad, a moment that demonstrated his selfless desire to see me blessed.  As such, it is a moment I will not soon forget.  

Way to go Dad and let's go Phillies! 

I Gotta See a Man About A Horse

"Bill," Dad requested. "Can you go to the back and bring me the horse?"

"Which horse would that be?" I asked.

"Just one of the saddle horses will be fine.  I need to get across there to borrow Steve's truck."  He pointed through the window and across the street. 

For some of you rancher types, that may not sound strange. But its been some time since Dad, or anyone living in our neck of woods - Eastern Delaware County, Pennsylvania, part of the Philadelphia metropolitan sprawl - saw a good saddle horse in the flesh, let alone rode such a beast to visit the neighbor. 

Reality gets hard to grasp sometimes for Dad, actually for all of us who share Dad's world. 

Words and ideas are often interchanged in Dad's mind and then rearranged day by day.  Take 'Daddy Max,' for instance, from my last post?  Oh, he was a real man for sure, but Max was no barber.  Dad insisted, "Max cut hair,"  but family members tell me Max actually owned a butcher shop. 

That doesn't mean Dad actually believes Max was a barber.  I've begun to see that, with Dad, the confusion is really just a matter of nomenclature.  Last week, a purveyor of fine meat products was a 'barber.'  Lacking the means to access the word, barber, Dad choose in the moment to call Max 'the guy who cut hair.'  This week, Max the meat man is properly reclassified as a butcher. 

A common strain in all of Dad's conversation is the idea of leaving, going home, or moving. His first greeting for me most days is, "I'm ready to go when you are!"  or "Where are you parked?"  Our friends in the world of hospice tell us this is common for elderly folks who, somewhere in their subconscious, realize they will be passing on soon.    

Dad got particularly animated yesterday about his pending 'move.' He had been watching our neighbor, not actually named Steve, but we can call him that.  'Steve' had been coming and going all afternoon in his Dodge Ram pickup.  It had suddenly occurred to Dad that 'Steve' and his pickup were a means of escape, his way to get out of Dodge - that is, his way to get back home and get all his things moved at the same time. 

A great plan but at some point Dad had accurately recognized that, though he could see 'Steve' from the comfort of his recliner, he was too weak to walk over to his place to ask for his help.  The horse was the best way to get from here to there and he would need my help to mount up.   

Those who know Dad, even a little, know that he spends many hours, day and night, watching western television shows and movies.  Right now he's watching the Gun Smoke movie, starring the elderly James Arness reprising his famous role of Matt Dylan, the marshal of Dodge City, Kansas.  Cowboys and Indians, mean and low-down varmints, bank robbers and gun slingers, tavern dancers and poker players; they are all a part of Dad's daily 'reality.'  Oh, did I mention horses.  Lots of horses. Always horses. 

Maybe Dad really thinks we have horses in the barn. Maybe he thinks we actually have a barn or a large ranch.  I'm not sure, though I'd bet the farm he probably knows we live on a postage stamp in the suburbs.  


So what's with all the talk about horses?  I'm thinking he was hoping I'd get his wheelchair out from the back closet - that old saddle horse - and push him to see 'Steve' so we could talk to him about borrowing his truck for the big move. 

So no, I'm afraid we have no horses, my neighbor is not named Steve, and Dad isn't moving anytime soon.  But like I said, in these parts, reality can be a hard thing to grasp.   

Daddy Max

One name Dad hasn't called me is Max!

Its funny, but Dad rarely calls me by my real name anymore.  Since his memory began slipping, he has branded me with more than a few names;  Ed, Leon, Tom, John, Dave, Bill.   From day to day it could be any of these or others, sometimes several in the same day.

I've come to believe each name has special meaning to him.  Perhaps he worked with Leon or Tom, maybe he served at the church's 'Brotherhood' with Ed or John.  Or these could be guys he liked hanging with or neighbors with whom he'd shoot the breeze.  Whoever they may have been, they were special to Dad.

When he calls me 'Dave,' for instance, he's probably thinking of Dave from church, the church in which Audrey was raised, where Dad and Mom attended and served for most of their adult lives.  Since Dad has been stuck in the house, Dave has regularly visited and continues to be a good friend.

I think his favorite monicker for me is 'Bill.'

This title most likely comes from, Bill, the cleaning guy.  Bill is an old friend of mine who runs a house cleaning service.  We were using Bill's services for a while back when Mom was still with us to keep Mom and Dad's place from getting out of control.  Cleaning days were a highlight for Dad.  Bill was more than 'the cleaning guy.'  He was a genuine and caring friend for Dad, who always took interest in Dad's thoughts and concerns.

Max apparently did hair in New Jersey back in the 1930's.  Was he a barber?  A hairdresser?  I'm not sure.  My wife refers to him as "Daddy Max" because of the way Max cared for my father-in-law when he was a child.  We believe he was somehow related to my father-in-law by marriage, perhaps married to his great-aunt.

Dad says,


"On Saturdays,  I'd take the train from 63rd Street and go over to New Jersey to see Max.  I'd spend the whole day with him at his shop."

Dad was an only child raised by his single mom who never married.  An unwed mother raising a child alone was simply untenable in the 1930's.  Young Herb didn't realize until he was a teen that his sister, Freda, was actually his birth-mother and that 'Mom' was actually his grandmother.  His grandfather had passed away before he could form a memory of him.

As a young boy being raised by women, living in virtual poverty, times spent with guys like Max, whatever the relationship, where important to Dad.  Max spent lots of time with young Herbie and made a remarkable impression.

Just this morning, Dad burst out with this fact...

"Each year, Max would send me and the girls to the stores and they would buy me all the clothes and shoes and supplies I needed for school that year."  

One thing that strikes me about old Max; Herb has never forgotten him or even mistakenly called someone else by his name, even on his most confused days.  Perhaps that is simply the way memory works.  We forget our most recent memories before the older ones.  But I'd like to believe 'Daddy Max' holds a special place in Dad's fragile memory, a place that time and aging have not been able to shake loose.

I don't know if there are any young men out there who would remember me in that way.  I hope so.  I know I'd like to find a way to make that kind of difference in a young boy's world, the kind of difference he will remember when all else is forgotten.  I'll look for him.  I'll pray he finds me.

When God Laughs

As Dad finally settled into bed, I paused to pray.  It had been a particularly rough night, one of those nights when I had begun to wonder what God was thinking.  The prayer was not a particularly pious expression of faith.

Many nights Dad will chatter about his day, usually telling stories about things he imagined occurred, or people he needed to meet as soon as we could get him there.  Not this night.  This night he was dead-weight in the sling, arms and legs hanging limply, no words, no smiles, no mumbling of incoherent memories or plans, no movement.  He hung like a wet sweater on a drying rack.  But for the barely visible rise and fall of his chest, there were no signs of life.

The motorized aid gently lowered him onto the waiting bed and he gave an involuntary sigh as his muscles relaxed.  I released him from the the sling and pulled the blankets to his chin, now discolored by  pink juice that hadn't quite made it through his lips.  I flipped on the oxygen concentrator and as it began its familiar hum I wrapped the nasal cannula around his ears and under his nose, the last step in the bedtime routine.

I looked at this man lying there, nearly motionless, my wife's father.  He had spent his day sitting in a chair waiting to go to bed.  He had been fed by others, toileted by others, bathed by others, and now put to bed by others.  I had to ask God why.  Why is he still here?  Could there be any good purpose in keeping this life going?  What possible good could he gain from more of this life?  I prayed.  I argued with God.

Have you ever heard when God laughs?

It's usually not real audible but I'm sure he often chuckles, maybe just a little, right before he tells you something that should be obvious.  He often laughs at me, I think.  Not mean laughter, more like the knowing laugh a loved child gets from Daddy when he asks something silly.  This time he laughed pretty hardily and then said,

"He's not here for his sake!  If this was just about him, he wouldn't be here, living like this.  No way!  No, he's here for you.  He's here to teach you.  He's here to teach you how to love."


I thought about that for some time.  Of all the great work my father-in-law has done for the Lord over his many years of life, perhaps this one could be one of his grandest works; teaching his son-in-law what it means to love.

Each day I spend with Dad could very well be his last, and yet each day is another day of opportunity for me, an opportunity to learn to love.  I don't know how long a trip it will be.  I'm not altogether sure where we're going or if I can make it all the way there.  But for another day, we walk on together.