Friday Flashback

Six years ago today my father died. He hadn't ever really been my dad, in the "Dad can I borrow the car?" or the "Dad, this is my boyfriend" sense. And the part of him that had been my daddy had been gone a very long time already. He was an angry, bitter, resentful man that Alzheimer's Disease turned first into a paranoid, delusional one, then into a resigned, broken spirit in the shell of my father's body.

I had already moved here to Vermont, and our family was in the limbo of almost-there but not-yet-permanent residency. The US was still in the immediate post-September 11th lockdown, and I was advised by our immigration lawyers that with the tenuous immigration status we had, leaving the country would be easy, getting back in might be impossible. I was pregnant, I had two small children here, what choice did I have? I couldn't risk being trapped on the other side of the border. So I didn't go to his funeral. As it turns out, the baby I was carrying had died a week or so earlier, and home was probably the best place for me.

I spoke with the minister who would be officiating at Dad's service and he agreed to read the few words I could put together. It was hard, offering remembrances for the man whose person had died 3 or 4 years before his body did. But I did. My brothers were angry that I wouldn't "make the effort" to be there. My mom, however, understood. She listened to the words I'd written and called me afterwards to tell me people and smiled and even laughed, and that she knew my choice was hard but I'd chosen right. Her feelings were what mattered, and she was okay with my decision.

Other than with the people at Dad's service, I've never shared this.

Situations have prevented me from being there today. My thoughts, however, are with you. Over the past few days, I have spoken with people who have lost someone, often quickly and tragically, and how cheated they felt. They had not had the opportunity to make peace before that person was taken from them. Dad did not leave us suddenly, his passing was so slow that we hardly noticed it. I don’t know which is harder to accept.

I don’t feel cheated like those others do. I did have my chance to make peace – it came a long time ago, when Dad was still enough himself to make peace with me. We tallied up our score cards, we decided, together, that we were even. I’m so grateful to have been handed that chance. I don’t know if I’d have had another, and I’m not sure I’d be feeling such peaceful relief now that the clouds have claimed him.

Quite a few years ago, mom was going on a trip to Holland to see her mother, her sister – all the relatives she kept in touch with. Dad didn’t want to go, so he drove her to the airport, watched her plane leave as we had always done when we took people to the airport, and started to make his way home. Already, Alzheimer’s had it’s hold on him. He ended up in Inglewood, north of Brampton. He didn’t know why he was there, though he did know where he was. He wasn’t sure why he headed to a home he hadn’t lived in for 20 years, but he felt that’s where home was. I think I know why – in Inglewood, the daddy I remember was a whistling, happy father who took us to Ford’s Gas station in our pajamas for chocolate sundaes. In Inglewood, he carried his kids on his shoulders and sang silly songs about them. In Inglewood we played Indians around the dining room table and rode his upside-down wheelbarrow like a car. He had been happy there, that happy past was where he wanted to be.

He called me when he did finally make it home, confused about what had just happened to him, troubled by the “clouds” that were starting to gather in his head. We talked about his adventure, discussed why he might have done what he did, and agreed that it was a good thing he’d been able to find his way home. We talked about his clouds too. That was his term. He said that it was very frustrating, that there were memories he knew he had but the clouds were blocking his vision. He knew there were things in his head that he could no longer see through those clouds. Some days, he said the clouds cleared, a little, and he could see those memories again, but the clearings were few, and brief. I came to realize that if there was anything I needed to say to him, that this might be my only chance to do it, knowing he’d hear, understand, and respond. It was quite a conversation, but I came away from it with a feeling of peace that I think I only fully appreciate now.

I hope all of you who have come today can feel that same peace.

My father in uniform, front & center with his 4 brothers ca 1950