Dad

Grief has caught up to me. Or I have caught up to grief.

Dad died in January 2005 after living with Alzheimer’s disease for several years. We were thankful for a good Christmas 2004 visit. We all gathered in Minneapolis, and spent a nice afternoon at the Veteran’s home as they put on a wonderful Christmas party. Dad was on par with the progress of the disease: untalkative, looking around at us blankly, not knowing our names. But not belligerent, not contrary, not depressed in any obvious way. Just quiet, passive, and empty. A one syllable acknowledgment of a question, maybe a slight grin reflecting our forced smiles. That Christmas, closest thing to a “gift” was captured in one photo. At the veteran’s home, after the party and meal, we took Dad back to his room. We got Dad seated, and Bob and I got down on a knee on either side of his chair. I told Dad what he meant to us and how we loved him. The “gift” came in the way he looked me in the eye. His back was so hunched that even with my head at his level, he had to look up to see my face. I said maybe four sentences, but his eyes stayed on mine for the duration, and someone snapped a photo that captured the moment. Dad’s eyes had the vacant gaze of advanced Alzheimer’s disease, but also the gentle warmth that had always been Dad’s truest quality.

Anne and I and our guys returned to Saskatchewan; Bob and Karen and their guys returned to South Carolina. As always, Jo, Bill, and their girls continued to be the ones close-by for Mom and Dad. We learned slowly over the next month that the meal at the Christmas Party was essentially Dad’s last decent meal. His deterioration accelerated. Maybe it’s more accurate to think not of acceleration, but stopping. Dad just stopped. Stopped eating, stopped walking, stopped looking around at his little world. In a month, he died.

We re-gathered in Minneapolis for Dad’s funeral. When everyone else cried, I did not. I couldn’t believe that my brain I was stuck in pastor mode. I’d been a nursing home Chaplain for 6 years, a pastor of an aging church for 7 years, and for 2 years in between I was “on call” with several funeral homes when families needed “protestant clergy.” I’ve officiated about 100 funerals. At Dad’s funeral, whether I was stuck in that rut or hiding in that role, I hated my dry eyes, and the possibility that underneath was a heart too cold or too cowardly to grieve.

Suddenly this summer, 2010, Dad is everywhere. I mow my lawn with a “reel” lawn mower. The pleasant swish of the hand-propelled blades always reminds me of Dad, who certainly was the last guy on our block to graduate to a power mower. I’m also finding myself intensely curious about America in the 1920’s, 30’s and 40’s because those were the decades that Dad lived before I came along (Dad was born in 1918; I was born in 1958). Even my late-blooming ability to celebrate things Scandinavian (see my blog “Primeval Journey: Roots) is in large part an honoring of Dad who is my symbolic connection point to that heritage. As I write this, we are on our annual Minneapolis trip, as is Bob and family, and yesterday we visited distant relatives—the last of Dad’s generation—for the express purpose of gleaning more information about family history and connections. Dad was very present in our reminiscing. This summer I am bathed in the light of “Dad memories.”

Today Mom, Anne and I paged through a few photo albums. Mom is increasingly forgetful and we urge her to try and remember—to try and reminisce. Looking at pictures of Mom and Dad (“Harold and Hazel”) dating and newly married, we saw Dad vigorous, sharp, handsome, and happy. I encouraged Mom to “remember Dad that way.” And I knew that this is what I also need to do.

For me, during these past five dry-eyed years I have not “tried” very hard. My memories of Dad have defaulted to those last years when Alzheimer’s killed his energy, intellect, and humor. It’s easy to feel relief that the Alzheimer’s ordeal is over. If all I remember are the years of pain, I certainly don’t grieve that they are over.

But as I mow with a reel mower, I see Dad the man of the house. As I think about the Great Depression and war years, I see Dad courageous. As I celebrate being Scandinavian, I see Dad the devoted son of the most Scandinavian person I’ve known, Grandma Paulson. As I enjoy the photos of Dad courting Mom, I see Dad the young soldier home after the war, strong and handsome. For 80 of his 86 years, Dad was all of this. I have so much to grieve.

Grief has chased me down. My eyes are wet. I miss my Dad.