Revisiting Father

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OK, I'm willing to admit that my post "The Idea of a Century" was a touch dark.  But I really can only report what I see at the moment, and the moment was dark.  Fortunately, the story didn't stop there.  A series of bizarre events, too complex to report here, kept me up in Chicago for a few weeks longer than anticipated. But those days contained some delightful exceptions to the idea of a century, replacing that idea with an affirmation of harmony.

First, Dad's 100th birthday party itself went off far better than any of us could have anticipated. It was held in a neighboring building, necessitating a wheelchair ride of maybe 30 yards. Father hadn't left "his building" in several months, and balked at the idea of such long distance traveling. But the staff helped my sister Margaret get him comfortable in his wheels. He brightened perceptively when Margaret rolled him into what must have appeared to be a sea of smiling faces. We have come to realize that Margaret is really the only person he consistently recognizes. Last night my older daughter Andrea, who bears a striking resemblance to her aunt, pointed out to me that Margaret still looks very much as she did when Dad was in his far more focused early nineties. That, and the fact that he sees her regularly, may well keep her "gentle on his mind." So Margaret stayed at his shoulder as the line of grandchildren, spouses, and his sole great-grandchild filed by in small, non-threatening groups. He seemed to enjoy being the center of attention and, as usual, had no trouble feeding his sweet tooth on cake and ice-cream.  All in all it was as good an outcome as we could have wished for.

However, even more comforting was the visit on the day just before Christine and I returned to Raleigh.  Margaret and I agree, the party notwithstanding, that Dad does best with small groups of particularly precious people. So we seek to protect him from unwanted intrusions and overwhelming numbers. It is interesting that social complexity, once his academic speciality and delight, is now simply a source of anxiety. Perhaps it is because he thinks he should understand, but just doesn't.  Anyhow, on this day there were only four of us. Margaret and her husband Bill, the family he sees most often, and Christine and me. Bill served as primary photographer, while Christine floated off my shoulder - in sight but not "crowding."  Margaret perched by Dad's "good ear," while I knelt on the other side of his chair.  What resulted was what Margaret and Bill report as his best day in months, if not longer. The conversation was fascinating, albeit only tangentially related to reality.  On this day he recognized me several times - and as several different people.  As we looked at the video later we agreed that most often I was his youngest brother Calvin. Margaret and Bill report that he often gets us confused in photographs.

He looked at me for a moment, and then his eyes lit up, "It is so good to see you! Your long hair had me confused there for awhile."  Well, my hair, still returning post-chemo, remains far shorter than it has ever been - but no doubt longer than his memories of Calvin's even shorter locks.  Still, there were some moments when I seemed to be a blend of Uncle Calvin, also a university professor, and myself.  Dad patted my arm and told the audience - Christine, Margaret and Bill - "This young man needs to realize that his teaching years, well, they will be .  .  . well."  He teared up a bit, still smiling, overcome with the memories of his own years in the classroom.

But then, dum ba dum, -  "And there was your brother Si - he was very tall."

We're back to basketball in South Dakota.  OK, I'm game.

"Yes, my brother Si was very tall." I replied.

"Well, I was almost as tall." Dad asserted. [The difference was at least 6 inches] "So I had to play like the dickens!"

Long pause. "We're going to go over there and play those boys at Marion High School . . . we'll show them."

And so we drifted along as he recalled his teaching days, playing baseball against the traveling team from the House of David, remembering his three kids reading on the couch by the Christmas tree. He faded in and out for another ten minutes or so; not unlike a radio on scan, sharing this, remembering a scrap of that. But finally he noticed that dinner was being served in the next room and we lost out to the promise of dessert. The staff helped him into his chair to roll over to dinner.  I leaned down to give him a hug.

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, Rob."

I have written before about a place I imagine called Alternia.  It is a place, I choose to believe, to which those afflicted with the broad range of maladies we define as dementia retreat when the world is too much for them. I choose to believe that on the bad days, when Dad is somewhere far away, that he is romping around in Alternia, hitting two-handed set shots against Marion High School, rapping out a double against The House of David, and sharing with decades of students the products of a truly remarkable mind.

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