grief

a little is a lot

 

I saw Dad today.  It was a simple visit. The idea now, is just to show up and be with whatever comes. Or remains. I have come to delight in telling him stories. This week, a childhood friend Eric reached out.  He lost his Dad years ago. I have been in touch from time to time with his Mom. We called one another’s folks – Aunt and Uncle. His mom Aunt Rita, and my Dad, Uncle Neil to Eric.  At their Sedar, Aunt Rita told Eric that my Dad was suffering dementia. He was saddened by the news, and reached out. He told me that of all of the “parent group” folks, my Dad remained a favorite in his memory. He mentioned his smile, and warm kindness. He recalled my Dad coming to their home to help delivery their puppies in the middle of the night.” Dr. Neil”, I joked. Dad worked in pharmaceutical advertising and his medical knowledge always had him a smidge away from Dr. in our hearts and minds. He asked that I shared with Dad that Eric was asking for him, sending love, and to give him a hug. His eyes lit at the story. Sure, he remembered Aunt Rita and Uncle Mark.  He recalled delivering the puppies as well.  

We walked to Lange’s Deli, where everyone knows Dad like they know you at Cheers. They still ask after his dog Max, and told him he should get another.  The man adds up our tab on the back of the brown paper bag. Two sandwiches, two diet creme Dr. Brown’s (I remind him it is a favorite—mine too), some new fangled pretzels that are hollow for a crisp and airy bite, and I get some vinegar and salt chips. They pack up our sack, and the deli man tells Dad, “ya know you should get a pony.”  They giggle and Dad wishes them a great rest of the day. He guides me across the street as if I am still a kid. “Watch that car, they are turning in”.  He’s still got my back. 

I leave him at the corner as I dash to mail a letter. He waits.  I sneak his photo. We finish up the short walk to his condo, and I steal some video of him walking. His gait is signature. He walks a bit on his toes, and the strides look peppy. At 83, with his new haircut and his Levi’s he is so seemingly young in spirit. I try so hard to look for the good in all of the loss we are experiencing as his memory fades. 

He points out the flowers newly planted on the condo grounds. Pansies, mostly yellow and some with purple centers. The daffodils and forsythia too. He has always admired a good manicured lawn and shares how it is cared for each time we talk on the phone, or walk by  and take in the fresh change of a season. 

I sort through his clothes. We have two baskets outside the closet, because they need to be out for him to remember where they are and to change. We swap out some new favorites into the rotation. We add these new boxer-type Depends. He tries them with no kerfuffle. Just askes me which is the back. He has a hernia which makes going to the bathroom a bit tricky these days. So this is for this just in case.

His easy-going Midwestern nature is so baked into his soul. This is Dad. I still see him. His wise counsel is missing, and gosh I miss that. But the heart of who is remains. 

I was fortunate to read a book recently called “The Beauty of What Remains” and meet the author, Rabbi Steve Leder when I hosted a chat with him on Clubhouse. His dad died after a ten-year bout of dementia. I see my dad through a Rabbi Leder’s lens this visit. 

I cream Dad’s hands. We watch a TNT show on foot surgery. Gross, but engaging. We wince and giggle. I tell Dad he has great feet and how lucky we are to have inherited them. He tells me about his recent trip to the barber, where only women work. He thinks the last trim is a bit short.  I say it is cool and modern. I call my Uber and as it pulls up, Dad takes his position on the porch. We hug and kiss and I tell him, “I love you Dad.” And as he always says, “I love you more.”  He adds, “thanks for everything Bub”. 

A little is a lot.  You are so right Rabbi Leder.  A little is a lot. 

today you would be seventy eight

Dear Mom -

Happy Birthday. It has been way too many years since we celebrated together. Consider this a card of sorts. I have been sharing so much of your story with my new memoir group. I think you would love to be in our writing group. It is filled with so many amazing women and with stories that we rarely get to tell one another. Tracy is the teacher, we met in yoga. You would admire her as I do.

After attending my share of Shaman, and mediums, I now feel sure that you are holding the girls. I feel safe knowing this, and have come to count on it when I am often lost in parenting. There is a lot of What Would Ellen Do, as I walk through my days. But, truth be told, nobody did anything quite like you.

I remember all of Danna’s cute guy friends, Bob included, rounding that custom table you designed in the kitchen at 52 Hubbard. They loved to be around you. When you would feign recalling what their precious nickname was for you, to be able to hear it once more… “What was that name again,” you would say?

Hot Mom. HM. I mean, who would not revel in that reflection?

My group, was a gaggle of girls. A mix of neighborhood friends like Irene, and Lisa and Diana, Kim and Kim and Barbara. Sometimes you would let them smoke at the table. Smoke. Imagining that these days makes me laugh. Of course I could not, and should not and would never in front of you. But we all did back then. I used to sneak one from your pack of Marlboro reds, and share it at the bus stop. It was gross, and also felt so grown up. Smoke rings and all.

You would regale the girls with your Thoroughly Modern Millie way in the world. Encouraging us all to be our own women. Have our own checkbooks, and bank accounts when and if we were to marry. Or remarry. You told us all about therapy. Once you told Danna and I that you were afraid of the kind of women we would have grown to be had you not left your first marriage. You even divorced Dad in a way that was your own, remaining friends. This was fodder and fierce knowing from your time in therapy. You always believed it was not to be a crutch, but a place to arrive and work out your issues and move along with what you earned and learned.

You suggested college and career paths to a few friends who did not have parents that were as knowing as you, or had explored different paths. You helped craft and edit a few one of a kind essays for them. What a beacon.

I recalled recently, your work with the woman’s shelter in Red Bank and The Arc. I remember the day you said, how can we sell million dollar homes when some people don’t have a place to safely put their heads down at night. You raised so much money for them through concerts at The Count Basie Theater that they were ripely funded. I recall making baggies of lady needs so that they would have those too when they escaped harm. It was hard for me to understand then, but as always you were a leader and a teacher.

Remember when the family moved in down the block and we got a yellow sign on the street “Deaf Child Area”. When Danna asked what that meant, you told her a young boy moved in who could not hear. If cars knew, and saw him in the street they would realize that beeping would not clear the block. She went on in 4th grade to go to Brookdale Community College to learn sign language (two levels!) and to be his babysitter. We had a crazy block in River Plaza. So many friends share their reflections of their time with you. Sharing you always felt like a treat.

You made a trip to Carvel an adventure. You made language come to life. You made being your daughter prideful no matter where we went. People adored you and complimented you always. You let us take off days of school to see a show, or shop. The School of Mom was always the greatest teaching. I too am always on “E” in the car, and it makes me think of you. Now the cars tell you how many miles you have left till you run out. I still think of your battle cry, no time to stop while we were getting it all done — “Lean forward girls, we are running on luck.”

Gosh how I wish you had been a “Grandy” as you asked to be called. Your four grandkids are a collective marvel. I think you would likely be more impressed with the Mom Danna has become over me. Imagine her being the one of us who is more strict? Of course she is still the one of us who is more kind — even when she is cross is soft. It is her way. She is my home. You gave me the greatest gift in her.

I thought recently about all of our homes. Wallace Road with the crazy candy lady up the block. Those silver dollar gummies and Bazooka pieces for a penny. It was creepy in retrospect and you probably should not have let us go there alone. The Mylar wallpaper in the kitchen and cool domed light that swagged. The fire engine red Formica table in Danna’s room you designed that fit in the corner and tucked in twin beds just so to create day beds. My Campaign furniture.

I clocked a lot of time sitting on the top of the toilet seat watching you layer shades of Borghese eye shadows on from the annual Christmas collection. A gift that was always on your list. You were really so good at make up. I don’t know that you ever realized your true beauty.

I recalled today how you taught us to shimmy and do the twist and share some of your hustle moves from dance lessons with Peter.

Remember when you came up to Wico and spoke at campfire. Danna and I visited and sat at the Old Pine and so much was new, but also the same. Being a camper there and an alumnus was the gift of a lifetime. We still talk to so many camp friends.

It feels so nice to write to you. It also feels filled with longing. It has been way to many days without you. I will buy something discount in your honor today. And long for a sign. I love you like no girl ever loved her mother. This much I know for sure.

If you have any pull where you are, which I am certain you do, can you please deliver us Joe and Kamala? Please.

Love you Mom.

Happy Birthday to the one and only.

x, B.

hey bar, it's neil

There is loss and grief when you have a parent living with dementia. I wrote this in a writing group recently, in response to a prompt. Writing is a beautiful way to process grief. A vulnerable share. Perhaps you will do the same. X. B. 

Hey Bar, it’s Neil. 

I don’t call my father Neil. He is Dad, Daddy or Grampsy mostly, as affectionately known by the grandkids for years and all who know that throughout the town. Until his driving was revoked and the car sold, he would spin around town with plates emblazoned with his trusty moniker. They now sit proudly on his fireplace mantel. Even he was delighted in the law breaking idea of never returning them to the DMV.

It’s Neil. This is his dementia talking.

He rarely leaves the confines of his one-bedroom condo, or the surrounding block. His habitual memory is so deeply grooved in a decade’s old routine, we dare not remove this melodic record from its sleeve. 

He wakes, he swings open the familiar back fence of the enclave and walks to Lange’s Deli. This is his Cheers. They know his name. That his beloved rescue Max has died. (Though he often reminds them). That he will want both The Post and The Daily News. He used to get a toasted bagel too. He has grown accustomed to a newly developed sweet tooth. The donuts with the most sprinkles seem to call to him. They must think all the grandkids are coming for breakfast. His caretaker tells them to stop indulging them in multiples. There is a childlike spirit and joy to what is left of the man I know. I hang on to that fiercely. Tight like his best hugs. And advice. That is the new outside, simple and pared down. But I guess that is familiar too, when you take the rest down to his Ohio roots.

He tells me how quickly they remove the snow on the sidewalks. Goes on about the weather. Unless it is jotted on a calendar we keep for him on the dining table, it is not in his purview. Not happening.

He calls his caretakers “The Patchers”, as they switch his daily medication from place to place on his back. A small 1x1 medicine doused square of hope to slow the hideous progression of the disease. He regales the Patchers with charm. On walks, he shows them the tallest pine tree, the house on the block with the wrap around porch that he admires most. At the library, he takes in the children’s story time. I have noticed, that there is something familiar to him that he sees in kids. He takes them in with rapt attention. Does he feel their equal? I am not sure of the connection, but it is stunning and simple all at once.

I am not certain where Neil is most days. Sometimes I dread calling. My brilliant advertising Mad Man of a Dad is no longer. His strong but quiet advice. A great ear and dazzling story teller. I can hear the ice cubes clinking in a cocktail back when he held the room. He is still funny as fuck. Thank God. The Patchers think so too.

I tell him stories about Neil. The one about taking a friend’s son to soccer games after she lost her husband on 9-11 and could not be at two games at the same time. How we dedicated a bench to Alan at his favorite diner, and how he used to place flowers there in memorial on that day. He would always send me a photo. “Boy, that sure sounds like something I would do, I wish I remembered.” Humbled by his own heart and actions. I take a mental note to keep on telling him these stories. This is my salve. How I keep him alive, though he is before me smiling and breathing and being.

When asked about hitting up a movie, or something that Neil used to really enjoy, he often declines. The inside gets bigger and more familiar as the outside eases in. I wish so much more for him. But, I am learning lessons in all of this. I too admire the way the fruit is so artfully stacked at Whole Foods now. He pointed it out on our visit there. You are so right Dad. We are in no rush to check things off the list. We are just inside.

IMG_0518.jpg

ellen

57361753669__D353FD6E-2009-4C60-B7FD-140650C351E3.JPG

i lost my mom ellen, in 1993. suddenly. she was just 50 years old. she went to the beach, and never came home. she suffered a brain aneurism. right there in her beach chair. just went to sleep for the very last time. healthy. happy. whip smart. a woman who changed the lives of all she met.

she had talked to each of us that day. went to sandy hook to enjoy a day off from her exceptional career as a realtor. her beach bag was filled with a receipt for her favorite santa rosa plums (pounds of them) and a trashy super market novel. the beach was probably her favorite place and salve. we alway say while it was far too soon, she may have written this ending.

she was pure magic. left an indelible mark wherever she walked. but there were few things she left behind for us to remember her by. she was far more doer than collector or keeper. she was so busy soaking up life, we usually had little to almost no gas in the car. “lean forward girls, we’re running on luck”, she’d say. last at the mall finding the perfect dress. closing down carvel for a cone with sprinkles.

finding memories like a rare wedding photo, while recently spending time with my dad, is like little unearthing love letters from her. we have always called her grandma ellen, though she never lived to know that her daughters had four wonderful kids between us. she would be so damn proud. fucking proud. the cashier at any store would have had an ear bent with stories of their stunning accomplishments. she knew the minutiae of our every days, and she would have surely known theirs. what a kick it would have been for her to be a grandmother. we have taught all of the kids at least one or two of her famous camp wicosuta songs (we went there too), i adore a good bad word or few as she did (proud sailor mouth), and my sister is her spitting image. we buy discount in her honor. we catch ourselves in mom moments and say, “ok, ellen”.

we continue to tell her story, and live her lessons every damn day. because that is how you go on. with a little bit of her in your soul. and a ladybug sighting, or day at the beach. just when you need it most.

the thing is | by ellen bass

rknmpteoQLq4GFe6s%%s7w.jpg

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you’ve held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

when grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs:

when grief weights you like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, how can a body withstand this?

then you hold life like a face,

between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet yes, and you say, yes, i will take you

i will love you again.