Happy Easter
Tiffany and I have been visiting a church near our apartment in Manhattan. We were eager to attend the Easter service to witness the celebration in a welcoming community. But our plans changed after my Mom mentioned that she intended to take my Dad to an Easter service nearby the nursing home and then have lunch with him at the Macaroni Grill. My heart sank at the thought of them by themselves on an important holiday. Tiffany shared this sentiment and suggested that we forgo our plans and meet them. I knew my Mom would appreciate the opportunity to be with us. And my Dad would as well.
We met my parents at the nursing home. It took a few minutes for them to emerge, which I soon found out was due to an emergency bathroom break. When they did walk out, my Mom was well ahead of my Dad. He was trailing behind in his newfound shuffle, which I blame rightly or wrongly on the nursing home and not on the Alzheimer's. I greeted them, wished them a Happy Easter. He said "It's nice out".
Once we were on my way, I was reminded of the unpleasantness of being with my Dad: the hack and wipe mucus on your hands and on your clothes and my new car thing. I practiced looking at the bigger picture. Enjoying being with him and more importantly giving him the gift of some pleasant moments surrounded by people who ease his nearly impervious uncertainty.
We arrived at the church. I helped Dad out of the car. He seems so frail. Like there's no "get out there and run" left in him. It's more like "stumble out and shuffle". We shuffled across the parking lot, up the steps, which he was able to count out-loud with me.
The service was bearable. I felt bad because I was very disinterested in it. Maybe it was partially due to the slight hangover I had. Partially due to the screaming kids in the balcony, which was the only open space left when we got there. Partially the terribly loud, off-pitch, clumsy trumpeter in the choir.
My dad hacked, wiped mucus on his hands. His nose hairs were too long. His coat had stains on it. So did his shoes. His appearance spoke to me of his care as: "Hey, there's no shit in his pants, what else do you want? And just in case he's wearing two diapers." I couldn't quite place his nacho aroma on Doritos or Combos. But knowing it was neither, I couldn't figure out what smelled. Was it his breath? Was it his clothes? Was it his body? Was it the lingering smell of the nursing home itself? Either way the untrimmed nose hairs really made me wish I had remembered my nose clippers this time. And how did I forget my packet of tissues? I suppose I was too engulfed in myself before we left to be prepared for the experiences I've learned to expect.
I smiled as he sang along with the hymns, laughing a bit at knowing he was neither singing the "right" words nor even opened to the "right" page in the hymnal. If it was even the hymnal he had open. But happy to know that the spirit of singing took hold of him and he was singing. We were singing. He was singing. What difference does the song make?
And then came the Lord's Prayer. And to my amazement he knocked out the first few verses. "Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed by thy name...." I'm not sure where he dropped off, but I was impressed that he said any of it.
At one point during the service, he began crying. He turned to me and said "You're a good boy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. boo hoo hoo" I said, "Buddy, don't be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. You're a good boy. I love you" He said, "I love you." I vaguely remember him saying he was a bad boy, but I am not positive of this.
I don't know why he felt the way he did. Or why he said what he said. But one thing I am beginning to understand is that among the layers of uncertainties and questions, one thing is for certain. He was feeling sad and guilty. And I comforted him as best I could. I recognized his emotion and know how it feels and whatever he feels guilty about, it's ok. It is what it is. There were two possible scenarios that entered my mind when he was apologizing. It was either that he felt guilty for having the disease and/or being a "burden". Or that on some level he was apologizing for years of missed opportunities between father and son. Either way, we are in the present. And neither of us can change the circumstances of our being, but we can be together and love each other's being.
After the service, we went to Macaroni Grill for lunch. He really had a hearty appetite and ate well, which made me happy. Even if he was using his hands to eat linguine and seafood. Whatever, utensils are just some realm of reason anyway.
I asked him a couple times if he was having fun. One time he responded with a confused look. I think I put my hands up, I'm not sure why. But he stood up in his seat. Raised his fists, started shaking them at me. And gave me a very intense stare. I thought he may jump across the table to swing at me. In the moment, I was scared. My feelings were hurt. What had I done to evoke this emotional response that he wanted to hit me? It got pretty scary. People at the other tables looked over in shock at what was going on? He said "Come on. Come at me. Hit me. Put your hands up." We were all a bit scared. Tiff was especially concerned as she was sitting next to him, so she gave him a stern look. He sat down as the new emotion was "Oh there's Tiff. Hi gorgeous." After he sat down, he said "Did you like that?" She said, "no." He asked, "Why not?" She said, because I thought it was scary. That was really his only outburst.
There were some other aspects of lunch that I would like to note and maybe revisit later. Most notably was my Mom opening up a bit about her feelings. She's sad and feels guilty. I think she's most sad that soon after his retirement he was loveable and happy-go-lucky and friendly. She mentioned a few people who only knew him in the years shortly after his retirement who have expressed such sadness that such a friendly guy had been struck by a devastating disease. At one point, she said she would have loved things if they had stayed the same as the first couple years because he was so much more pleasant. She expressed remorse that he had been so focused on work, his career, money and that "we were the lowest on the totem pole". When she used the word "we" I think she meant both we as in "the family" and "He and I" as in their marriage.
The pain and sadness my Mom feels is one of the learning lessons to take from this. It exemplifies the essence of how I don't want to be like my father. The contrast is the friendly lovable nature that was now so obviously underlying that persona and those pressures he had placed upon himself. Going back to his childhood. He undertook the American Dream and placed it squarely on his shoulders. Son of a poor immigrant, he would make something of himself. He passed the baton. The question is how do I carry it?