Living and Loving

Tiff and I celebrated Nicky Coira's First Communion at my cousin's house in Bridgewater, NJ. The drive out there was fresh. And the times had were like if the sides were rubbed with years' of handling.

My dad is fading. Deteriorating more rapidly than I've noticed before. Maybe now I'm more in tune and acceptance of the reality. But my gut tells me it's predominantly a more rapid decline.

Perhaps this explains the recent falloff in Living and Loving posts. It got to the point where denial was leading me to believe I couldn't remember what happened and what specifically was said. Seems a bit ironic to be concerned with articulating the events verbatim.

Recently (the past few months), my dad's shaving has declined. He has always been, at least in my lifetime, very well groomed. Very clean shaven and immaculate hair. That takes me back to his high school days when his game-winning speed on the field earned him the moniker: "Johnny the Bullet". Johnny held many school records and went on to repeat these successes in college. We attended his introduction into the inagural Susquehana Football Hall of Fame. He still wears the ring. I remember coming across a video or some other visual memento of the occassion.

As always, Rob and Christopher Coira had volleyball aspirations for their backyard. Robbie is a master of the backyard BBQ. He always has been. He could really take that up a few more notches and make something big out of it. Or not..

There were two teams, split roughly equally in abysmal talent. A few years ago, this same squad would have spent the entire day in a competitive format, keeping score and playing the rules in games full of sheer excitement. But this day instead, we were mostly older, fatter, sedintary. My dad was on the court on one side. He'd catch the ball every time it came to him. And nobody except for one of my little cousins (technically something like a first cousin once removed) complained. He'd throw the ball and annouce "Are you ready to rumble?" Every time. Every single time. A few times he left off the "to rumble" so I threw that in there for him to maintain the unity of his thought.

He was on the football field again. He can still run. "But you know I can still run don't you?"

He told me he loved me. Many times. He told Tiff that he loved me and that I was a great guy. I think he called me a great brother also. Regardless of the whats and the whys and the are you sures, it makes me happy to know it. A little shy to hear it in front of people. But I go to these family events or any social event for that matter where he's present and I watch the body language of all around. Nobody really knows what to do or say. Or how to care. Many wish he were as friendly and sociable his entire life as he is now.

For me, maybe it's different. Maybe I was blessed in the end for not really knowing him from his youth into mid-manhood. Maybe his entire life he was living life the way he thought he should. Maybe he lived it one way or another. But he lived it. To the end. To the fullest of what he could do. Because he did it. Whatever he was capable of as a kid, he did what he did. And now he's at a point to be honest. He's being honest. His mind may or may not have deteriorated (perhaps in fact it's divine intervention). But he's revealing honest emotion. I understand why some or most may have sorrow because he wasn't like this before. But we all see it now. The choice I've made is to appreciate it now in its circumstance. To flex in to the reality and play by its rules. I've found the experience to be incredibly meaningful. In ways I'm beginning to articulate.

It's painful to witness the increasing separation of our realities. But the faith I must have is in that in some way it's a divine experience for me to share with him. And frankly, the separation is going to happen however I choose to handle it. So I've chosen to make a life-fulfilling investment in my choice.