I tried a new track and asked them both what they wanted for Christmas. Dad didn’t answer. He barely lifted his head. Mom paused for only a second before answering, “Come over and have dinner with us.”

Huh! I hadn’t expected that but thought why not! I know their favorite food, fried chicken and coca cola. Something even I can do. Christmas dinner it is.

It was lunch time so I walked Mom to her table. She held my hand and high-stepped behind me. She was happy. I then went back to Dad and waited for his wheelchair to be brought out. Dad was barely responsive to all questions or comments so I just sat quietly next to him and looked across the room at Mom ensuring she was still alright and that she stayed in her seat at the table, when I felt it… a hand, my Dad’s hand.

Dad had placed his hand on my knee. His eyes were still closed, his head down, but he’d gently laid his hand on me letting me know we were still connected.

No words necessary.

An important lesson learned, when you type the words “mall” “men’s clothing” and “chicago” into a search engine, you really need to be more specific about your desired location. I did get to learn the highway and toll road system in and around Chicago as well as its outer suburbs. Unlimited mileage on a rental car is a beautiful thing. Thank the Lord for GPS.

As desired, I exercised the opportunity to be “here and now” for my family. Here and now meant giving my sister-in-law a sounding board as she attended to the seemingly endless details that accompany the death of a spouse, gladly playing chauffeur and picking up arrive family members from the airport, taking my niece dress shopping and later my nephew suit shopping; it meant being there as boxes and chests were opened which contained my brother’s most treasured items; it meant speaking on behalf of the family at my brother’s memorial. In the end, just being there was more than enough.   Again thank-you for your many thoughts and prayers.

As I also mentioned in my last post, new challenges awaited upon my return. My kids quickly engulfed me in school and extra curricular activities, work layered more than enough back on my plate as all were eagerly awaiting my return, then there was my Dad.

I took Dad to the cardiologist within days of my return. The Dr feels an existing problem may indeed be worsening. More tests and several more appointments as pending to determine the nature and extend of the problem. He reconfirmed a previous discussion he and I have had. If it is what we suspect, there aren’t a lot of treatment options. Still not a crisis, no hospitalization needed but I became more aware of the symptoms my dad has been having and had to actively fight the sensation that I was standing by watching yet another loved one die.

In the course of getting my Dad ready for his appointment and transporting him, the facility staff asked him who was I?  Dad looked up at me and said, “that’s my friend….”

You could look at that negatively and think how sad that he didn’t recognize his son. But what son wouldn’t want to hear his Dad describe him to others as “his friend.” (I just realized that my favorite nickname for my son is “Paisan”) I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words from my Dad before. I proudly carry them now.

I’M MY DAD’S FRIEND!

Mom: He’d too old to go anywhere, he better just stay here.

Me: Mom it’s Dad’s birthday today, he’s 90 years old.

Mom: After today we’ll have another Birthday for him next week.

Me: I think turning 90 once is good enough. You’re going to wear Dad out.

Me: Mom it’s Dad’s birthday today, he’s 90 years old.

Mom: Well how old am I?

Me: You’re 85 years old.

Mom: Noooooo, I’m not that old.

Me: Ok, you’re 85 years young.

Me: Mom it’s Dad’s birthday today, he’s 90 years old.

Mom: WHAT?!? How’d he get to be that old?

Me: One day at a time, Mom, one day at a time.

Dad didn’t say much the entire time, he just listened to Mom and I go back and forth and chuckled. He kept looking at the tag I’d placed around his neck which had his age on it as if even he couldn’t believe he’d achieved such a milestone.

And yes, I did whisper in his ear several times…”I love you, Pop-pop.  Happy Birthday!”

Once it was clear to drive I went and checked on Mom and Dad. As suspected they were well with no idea that a storm had even occurred. The facility was intact having lost power only briefly. The staff looked a little tired but not too bad considering they’d rode out a hurricane in an Alzheimer’s facility. Between the recent death of a resident and now a hurricane I think it’s time for me to deliver some flowers to them. I love my parent’s staff.

Speaking of flowers the final but very important item on my post-storm check list was my wife’s grave. Her flowers were a little askew but otherwise fine. I gently wiped some mud off of her marker and straightened the vase. Many others’ arrangements were obviously storm damaged and a large tree had fallen in the cemetery. In fact everywhere I drove the area was littered with snapped and uprooted trees and many remain without power. Some here have been told not to expect power restored before the weekend.

By now you’re hearing a lot of the questions about whether the storm was over-hyped or not. Perhaps, but not by much.

The picture is of the oldest resident on the military base where I work. It is a massive oak tree which has acquired the name “The Bicentennial Tree” and is estimated to be ~420 years old. It is so big that its branches reach the ground acting like additional legs and the Marine Corps has had to move an adjacent sidewalk twice. The joke around here is that the tree is not encroaching upon the road, the road is encroaching upon the tree.

Driving around base this morning I again marveled at the many trees I saw fallen and began to wonder how did the big oak fair. Driving in its direction I feared the worse, seeing one large tree after another toppled or snapped in two.  Then I turned a corner and there it was, the Bicentennial Tree in all of its glory. It didn’t even look like any branches had broken off.

Now this tree is beyond old and bears numerous scars of a life well lived, it needs help standing and frankly for the rest of its days will have a pronounced stoop, but it knows how to weather a storm and once again showed it strength, standing firm where younger versions toppled.

I like this old tree.

Fast forward almost exactly one year and once again I find myself considering what to do during destructive weather, courtesy of my new bestest gal, Irene.  Once again I find myself listening to nursing home staff review manning plans, disaster response and recovery plans, emergency transportation.  I marvel again at the providence that I selected this particular facility.  It is an older place, not much to look at.  However, it is all brick, built like a bank and has weathered dozens and dozens of storms like this one.  My parents are safer than the kids and I and I gave serious consideration to moving in with my parents for the storm.  Many of the staff and other family of residents do exactly that.

Mom and Dad had little awareness of the impending storm as I briefly spent time with them between my final personal preparations.  I dropped off donuts for them and the staff but as rain began to fall, I quickly and carefully made my way home to be with my kids and dog.

Family have been calling around the clock checking on us and asking if we were evacuating.  Having weathered several of these and a few typhoons in the far east, my experienced assessment is that we are fine.  Significantly I note that we are not under a evacuation order or anything.  If we were, we’d leave.  But I always point out to my callers, I am not leaving Mom and Dad behind and so far none of the nursing homes or senior facilities in town are evacuating.  I think people out of town forget Mom and Dad, I never do.

Gas, cash, food, and flashlights…check.  Emergency bags, cars staged…check.  Shelter identified, evac route picked if needed…check.  It’s going to be a long but interesting weekend.  Wonder how long can a dog go without using the bathroom?

Today I was reminded of that.

This week my daughter reminded me why this is so important to me. She told me about a dream she had just had. In the dream her mom was in the hospital, in a coma and about to die. Knowing what was about to happen my daughter said she reached out and hugged her mom tightly and just held on. Then she woke up. My daughter described it as a good dream because it was time with Mom… something she doesn’t get to do anymore and hasn’t been able to do for many years.

In reality it was me hugging my just-deceased wife, my kids were in a waiting room with family and hospital staff. I cried and cried out to God, What am I supposed to do now?

I quickly learned I couldn’t fix things. This was a journey my kids and I were just going to have walk through. That lesson has been reinforced with caregiving for my parents. I can’t fix them either. I still use Dr’s and medical care but there is this underlying reality, they are not getting better. Mom is 85 and Pop’s turns 90 next month. Both are increasingly getting worse, each in different ways. I increasingly have this urge to reach out and hold them tight. Maybe I’ll wake up…

…ever notice that dreams start and end in the middle?

That’s how Mom greeted me the other day. I was relieved. Although it had only been a few days since I had last been there. Still I half expected her to shout out, “Where have you been?”

Since I haven’t blogged here since early July you would be excused if you said the same thing. In my defense it has been a busy summer: music camp which involved driving 1,300 miles twice in four days, soccer camp, soccer try-outs, out-of-state work trips, across state work trips, sprinkled in with working full-time, an unscheduled doctor’s visit for both parents, a quick trip to the high school for a last minute schedule adjustment which ended up in a minor fender bender and just not letting more than two days go by without visiting Mom and Dad. Add to that mix a critically ill sibling who on top of cancer had heart surgery. But there are a few recent events which stand out in my mind above even those and remind me of my oft competing roles of single parent, caregiver, worker and comforter to two kids who still miss their mother.

I no longer make a big deal of my deceased wife’s birthday and my kids have not brought it up in recent years. This year her birthday came while I was out of state. This year my kids remembered it. They told me afterward that when they realized what day it was they paused and wished her happy birthday. I wish I had been there.

During the same trip my sister called and informed me that my aunt had died. My aunt, who was my mother’s sister, had suffered dementia, too, (it runs through my family) and had been a nursing home resident under the care of other family members. I wrestled with how to tell Mom that another sister had died (second one this year). Mom won’t remember before the sentence is even concluded but I wanted to say something.

When I got home (in fact I went straight to the nursing home after my plane landed), I asked Mom did she remember her sister. Mom said yes, she was her only sister. I corrected her because she had ten brothers and sisters. So Mom then corrected me and said my aunt was her favorite sister. I playfully accused Mom of trying to stir up trouble. I paused and told Mom her sister was now “home.” My Mom’s face lit up, she gave me this huge smile and replied, “aww, that’s nice, she’s home.”

I couldn’t have said it better.

Last Sunday, I drove five hours to attend the funeral service and immediately drove five hours back because I had urgent meetings the next morning. It was worth it to share that conversation of my Mom’s with my extended family.

Sorry I’ve been gone, it has been quite a summer.

Our visits this summer have settled into a predictable routine: I quietly walk up behind Mom and Dad, who are briefly started and then pleased to see me, I scruff up Dad’s hair and he grabs and holds my hand, I sit next to Mom, proceed to joke and play with her; she pats my leg so I’ll pat hers back; she puts a foot on top of mine and I immediately place my size 9s on top of hers; the whole time she is cracking up.

I’ve written before about Mom’s inability to identify me. Yesterday Mom did something new. She grabbed my arm and said, “You’re my son, you’re my baby!”

I choke back sniffles.

Then in the next heartbeat she adds, “You’re my brother!”

Okay, warm moment gone.

Silly me tries to suggest to Mom that she might have to choose, that I couldn’t be both her brother AND her son at the same time.

Mom would have none of that. Instead she adamantly corrects me.  She let me know that she did not have to choose.  I was her mother’s baby (brother) and I was her baby (son), that I’d come straight down from heaven and now I was hers…

… the sniffles are back.

What Color is Your Plate by Max Wallack

http://www.alzheimersreadingroom.com/2010/08/what-color-is-your-plate.html

some highlights:

“Forty percent of Alzheimer’s patients don’t eat enough…”

“…vision plays a role in Alzhemer’s patients reluctance to eat. This phenomena is explained by Boston University bio-psychologist Alice Cronin-Golomb and her research partners in an article subtitled — ‘If you couldn’t see your mashed potatoes, you probably wouldn’t eat them.’ ”

“Previous explanations for this phenomenon included depression, inability to concentrate on more than one food at a time, and inability to eat unassisted.”

“Cronin-Golomb and her colleagues took a different approach. “They believed this behavior might be explained by the visual-cognitive deficiencies caused by Alzheimer’s.  Patients with the disease cannot process visual data—like contrast and depth perception—as well as most other seniors.  So Cronin-Golomb’s team… tested advanced Alzheimer’s patients’ level of food intake with standard white plates and with bright-red ones.”  “What they found was astonishing — patients eating from red plates consumed 25 percent more food than those eating from white plates.”

Which begs the question, as one commented posted, “what color do we use to… stop eating?”