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.
