Catching Up: All of the things I didn't write about when I really should have written about them

Hey there! I know, my time for doing the 2011 Year in Review posting was soooo two weeks ago, yet here I am leaping onto the bandwagon. Or perhaps I'm just stumbling after it.

Only time will tell.

The children have all gone back to school today - Caitlin to her last semester in Elementary school and the twins to their last semester in Pre-school. Come fall I will have one child in middle school and a pair of kindergarteners! How crazy is that?

Certifiable, that's how crazy!

We went on a tour of Caitlin's Junior High Middle School last night, she and I, and I was markedly impressed. I am hereby remarking upon it. I'm hoping she loves it as much as I suspect she will. So many programs and clubs!

Anyway, last year...was a whopper. There were a number of very good things about it and some seriously miserable things. If you've been following along, you'll know of what I speak. I'll try to focus on the good stuff instead of sniffling over my keyboard.

Perhaps reverse order?

Xmas 2011 was very close to being a wash. Turns out that someone around here needs to start taking her vitamin D pills starting in September so that it has a chance to build up in her system. You know, in case you want to avoid a serious case of the Bah, humbugs! by the time Christmas rolls around again. I didn't get cards done or mailed packages to family. Let's just say I take after Dad on this one. Who's up for Christmas in July?!

The family came through for us on Xmas. There were all kinds of things from the cousins, grandparents, aunts and such. I didn't feel bad that we didn't add to the insanity other than a book apiece and a single DVD. Well, if you don't include the stockings. Those were full of chocolate this year (Plus the traditional apple and orange, although I subbed a Clementine for a regular orange. Must more kid friendly.). Which everyone ate while I was still in bed, as you can tell from Little Miss Chocolate Face right here.

Logan gravitated to the largest box under the tree.  Turns out it was a Lightning McQueen springy tent thingy. He loves it. He jumps on it. Love and mangling go hand in hand, don't they?

I only asked for one thing this year. Well, other than no whining and fighting. Eric came through with a 50mm 1.4 lens! Woo! Here is a lovely shot of my test subject.

I'll have to play with the lens more in the new year. I look forward to more sexy bokeh!

This year's Spelling Bee fell on Eric's birthday, which doesn't actually explain why there are no photos of the tiny dinner party we had for him, but there it is. Caitlin didn't win the Bee this year, but came in 2nd place. She was undone by the word "laborious" by adding an extra "u". I was sad the Bee didn't go on longer because I really enjoy when you're down to the last two contestants and the words start flying back and forth, getting harder and increasingly esoteric. Ah well. She's got 3 more years of Bees, if she still wants to go for Nationals! We applied prescription levels of ice cream and all was right with the world.

During the first weekend in December, I shot my friend Susan's baby boy's first birthday party. Tiny red heads are so cute!

Perhaps I'll get back into the swing of photography again this year? At some point I'll have to determine what I want to do with myself once the twins are in school full time. I'm debating going back to school, the only question remains, for what?! That, however, is a discussion for another time. Deep, dark, soul-baring discussion.

In seemingly typical me fashion, I have pictures of the bread I made for Thanksgiving, but no pictures of Thanksgiving festivities. I fail the acid test of diehard scrapbookers. Clearly I'm not a scrapper.

Three versions of braided bread. Left: 6 strand braid; middle: 3 strand braid; right: 2 strand braid.

But...! But the bread was really good!

In the middle of November, still on the bread theme, I was testing out the differences in retarding my sourdough overnight versus baking it off the same day it rose.

Bread on the left retarded in the brotform overnight in the fridge. Maintained the shape better, but had less oven spring and grigne than the one on the right, which I baked the same day as final fermentation.

Either way, it was delicious.

In early November, we made a "surprise" trip to KS for Val's 40th birthday.

Except for one small problem: she wasn't surprised. Turns out her boyfriend can't keep a secret to save his life! I offered to pummel him, but he declined.

On Halloween, we got dressed up and took the kids Trick or Treating, but then completely forgot to take pictures of them in their outfits! It it wasn't for Misty requesting photos of her ultra cool Raven costume, there wouldn't be one of either Eric or I in our Archer/Lana Kane outfits either. Whoops!

In mid-October I finished the dining room painting and hung the floating shelves with Eric.

The finished art cabinet is in the corner. Keeper of all things paper, paint, and crayon related.

My String of Pearls plant won't survive the winter outdoors. Turns out that it can't survive my care indoors, either. Sadly, most of the succulents pictured here are dead now. I'll have to some up with an alternate display!

Wall of succulents brought in before the weather got too cold. 

I'm so glad I finished painting the main floor. It makes a huge difference in how I feel about the house. In early spring I'll work on the rest of the painting. I need to be able to keep the windows open. Even low VOC paint has fumes that make my head spin in enclosed spaces.

In late September, the twins turned 4 and we had a party. Not that you noticed, since I didn't post anything about it in Blogland. Nope, skipped over it entirely on the blog, but posted pics on Facebook for my mom to see.

The big cousins, plus Marlena.

The cupcakes. This is as fancy as I got. Chocolate cupcakes with mint frosting, pink sprinkles for Emma with princess toothpicks and red sprinkles for Logan with Cars toothpicks. Tah-dah! Decorated! No balloons, no matching tableware and a whole lot less to throw away at the end of the party. Somewhere in Canada, my kid sister is stunned by how undecorated it all is. We have opposite birthday talents: she's amazing at decorating. I put all my energy into the food.

Emma shows off her princess cookie. Those were my goodies for the goodie bag: a single enormous sugar cookie with Royal frosting and pink or red sprinkles. Once again, "simple" and without a lot of trash or little plastic bits to get vacuumed up later.

We had our very own in-house facepainter at the party! Grammy Linda has taken on a new career as a facepainter and was doing up adult and child guests alike. Jenni makes a lovely butterfly.

Emma and Logan made a new friend at preschool: Asher.

King for a day!

Logan shows off his car cookie chomping skills.

The twins still love it when everyone sings. It's much more difficult to take pictures of them when they're no longer held in place by highchairs!

In between ferocious painting episodes, I stopped on occasion and enjoyed my hummingbirds.

Other than losing weight (Or, to be honest, just temporarily misplacing it since it seems to have found me again...), gaining muscle and then falling off the horse again (hard), the rest of the year was all related to Dad. The big drive cross country. Family. I still have yet more pictures from Canada to edit, which I'll get to this week.

I know, it's only been 6 months!

Whoops! Better go get the twins from pre-school! Ciao!

The After Party

We returned to the church basement for the reception (Personally, I tend to see those as things you do after weddings, but I guess it was a reception, when you get right down to it.) and the starving hordes dug into the food that was arrayed before us. There was talk, plans for the day, discussions of who was doing what currently, how they'd all been, and how big all of the children were getting.

Time passed, pleasantly enough, and then the guests drifted away. As we wrapped up, we carted out loads of food, cards of condolences, and huge vases filled with flowers. Some were sent on to the nursing home in thanks, some went home with us. I carried an enormous vase overflowing with gorgeous flowers that were cut from someone's yard.

I didn't take any pictures of the reception, but when we got back to mom's house with our arms full of flowers, children, and food, I pulled out my camera for just a moment.

They were just so quiet and happy to be together, I couldn't resist taking the shot.

Dawn, Maddie and Emma hang out in the kitchen. 

We "adults" sat on the screened in porch and chatted. The "girls", as we refer to my cousins (Doesn't matter how old any of them will ever be, we'll always refer to them as the girls. I feel certain that my siblings and I are referred to as "the kids".), were chatting with mom about their mother when the subject of letters came up. Mom pulled out a bag filled with old letters from my paternal grandmother, Alice; letters from my father's older sister, Thelma; letters from my father to my mother.

We laughed at how Nanny and Thelma were so thrifty that they'd use every possible inch on the front and back of any postcard or letter ever sent. Words would curl around the manufacturer's name and copyright date in a clockwise manner, the crabbed handwriting getting in as much news as possible in a very limited space. They are all fascinating glimpses of times long past: the cost of stamps, the images of vacation spots here and there, the prices of common goods mentioned fleetingly.

The most amazing letters of all, though, were those from my father to my mother. Mom didn't realize that she'd handed us one of dad's letter until we started trying to read it aloud. The paper was so very thin, to keep the cost of airmail down, the paper so fragile. The script was lovely, although occasionally it was hard to decipher. Marilyn was reading the letter when she stopped abruptly. It was a private letter from my father to my mother in their year long separation from one another, after he left the island and returned to Canada at the end of his shift in Jamaica.

I'm not allowed to talk about what was in that letter. I'm also not allowed to read all the rest of those letters until my mother passes away (A million, billion years from now.), and my kid sister suggested strenuously that I shouldn't even want to read them then. I, however, look at it very differently.

This letter, the way it was written, the very formal wording used, the script displayed upon it, and the very carefully relayed feelings it talked of are the very reasons we should get to read them, way into the future. The paper was so amazingly thin, it's called onion skin. It felt almost like parchment, or a stiff tissue paper. I had never seen a sample of my father's script before. All my life I only remember his heavy printed handwriting. The letter never talked of love. It never mentioned that my father was missing my future mother. The language was so incredibly formal that it could have been in one of Jane Austen's books. It was impossibly romantic in way that I never expected. It opened my eyes to a piece of my family history that was never mentioned, never talked about. It felt beautiful, delicate, and mysterious. My parents love story.

We had heard the stories about how he serenaded my mother; how he referred to her as his wife brazenly in the bank waaaaaay before they were ever dating; how she thought he was a "stuffed shirt"; how he fell into the pool filled with icy mountain water at her house, but the time between his leaving Jamaica and sending her the engagement ring is still a mystery.

Only my mother knows what happened and she's not telling. She promised we'd get to have the letters eventually, but not now. The mystery will have to wait. Piecing together their love story, and epic love story it certainly was, will wait. I only regret that by the time I find more pieces to the puzzle, I'll just come up with more questions and there will be no one left to answer them. (Let's face it, I'm the defacto family storyteller. My curiosity trumps all others. Besides, I've learned how to continue typing while crying and that takes skill, baby!)

Setting aside the 45 year old letter, I turned back to the folks on the porch. As they started making leaving noises, it struck me that many of my cousins were leaving that very day. I was about to miss my chance at any photos if I didn't hop to it. I shook off the sleepiness that was creeping up on me, there on the sun warmed porch, and grabbed my camera.

Nancy holds the letter in her hands. The paper was so thin that the script on one side interfered with reading the other side of the letter. We had to pore over it for quite awhile to make some of the words out. Everyone exclaimed over the beauty of it.

Some of the girls pose for a picture before they take off.

Marilyn, Ruth, Dawn holding Maddie, Mom, Cindy and Nancy the Younger down in front.

I got in on the act before my opportunity was gone.

Pat (on the left) and George (on the right). 

Pat is the man that brought the engagement ring from my father in Canada to my mother in Jamaica. My dad just handed him a package in a completely unassuming manner, never revealing what was in it. Pat was stunned when my mother opened it up and found the ring tucked inside a folded piece of cardboard. He says he retroactively panicked over the fact that he hadn't taken any great care with it when carrying it, not realizing how important the contents were.

My dad was such a stinker.

My cousin Ron.

More talking and reminiscing went on after the first wave of friends and family left. Naps were had by young and older not quite as young more mature alike. The day was emotionally draining, yet uplifting at the same time. I hardly ever get to see my cousins and the stories they told that day broke my heart, made me laugh, and helped me to know my father a little more. Each one has their favorite story about my father. Each one a different perspective, another facet, holding another piece of the puzzle. They talk about sneaking in to peek at my gorgeous, exotic mother napping on the sofa in their house, in the days before the wedding. How dad would light up their mother and their whole house when he walked into it. How he'd taken them fishing and hunting. How he'd bake for them, making a huge mess in their mother's kitchen.

We wandered down into my mother's garden, filled with gorgeous blooms indifferent to the importance of the day. Peonies, roses, daylilies. Explosions of color and scent. Hummingbirds zipped along, sipping nectar.

It was a beautiful day. A day filled with warmth and sunshine; the sky clear and blue; the air warm and still. It was the day we buried my father. It was a good day to be alive and to love one another, just a little more, just a little while longer.

Life can't always be filled with pathos. Pain and suffering and illness eventually come to an end. Remember to sniff the roses. If not for yourself, then for those that have gone before.

As ever, my love to you.

Into the Earth

Today would have been my parents 45th wedding anniversary. My gift may be slightly macabre, but it's been rattling around in my head and freezing my hands for months. Here's what happened on July 6th, 2011.

The day we buried my father finally dawned on us. It was sunny, clear, and warm. Considering it was early July the warmth shouldn't have been surprising, but since it had been relatively cool all of the days prior the warmth was unexpected.

We got all dressed up in our fancy clothes and headed to the church. There we met up with my passel of cousins, young and not quite as young. As happy as we were to see each other, we were a little stilted and withdrawn. Do you perk up at the sight of someone you wouldn't even be seeing if your common relative hadn't died? I do, but it came and went in waves. I was pleased to see everyone, but it was hard to continue accepting condolences. Lining up, shaking hands. Who are these people? Church members, old friends, members of the choir all shuffle into the church and greet us using sad, tender voices.

After we greet the crowd, we wait in a small room with my cousins until the witnesses? audience? attendees are all seated. I took a few pictures to keep from thinking too much. The brightest spot of the whole ordeal was right here:

Maddie was as cute as a button.

Emma was fascinated by the 7 month old Maddie and spent a lot of time holding her tiny hands and stroking her soft cheeks.

Smooches for Maddie.

One portion of my cousins. An initial serving, as it were. These are the children of my dad's eldest sister, Thelma. These are the cousins I grew up knowing and they knew all of the best stories about my dad.

Marilyn, holding Logan, Ron, my own dark self, Nancy standing next to/behind Eric, who is holding Emma and Caitlin.

In the waiting room waited another serving of cousins, my brother and his sweetheart.

Ian, Deb, Maddie in the stroller, Ruth in the background, Nancy (the younger), and Marilyn again.

The priest and the undertaker sorted out their business and stepped to the front of the procession. We fell into line behind them and solemnly walked in, all eyes on the stainless steel urn held by the man at the front of the line. We finally made it to the front row, where all of the family spread into a thin, dark line and seated ourselves.

The formalities began.

Here's the part where I will be honest with you: I really couldn't concentrate on the funeral. I wasn't crying. I'm not sure if anyone was. I felt disjointed and distant. It wasn't a mass, since dad wasn't Catholic, but it was filled with singing songs I didn't know and some readings I didn't recognize save for one. I felt twitchy, overly warm, and out of place. I don't know if it was the kind of service he would have chosen for himself if you'd asked him. It seemed way too formal, bound by odd church strictures and laws. It did, however, begin to tell me what kind of funeral that I'd like, when that day comes for me.

Imagine a garden, my garden of the future, maybe. Perhaps a gorgeous park. Somehow I'm assuming I'll die when it's warm, but that may just be because of the current circumstances. A few concentric rings of chairs and a table with my urn on it in the center.  I'd like to be flash frozen and shattered instead of cremated. I'd become instant compost. (In fact, the process is called corpse composting. Eco unto death, that's me.) The group of folks would then tell stories about me. No singing, unless someone really wanted to. No music, unless it would make the mourners feel better. Instead, a circle of friends and family, telling stories, laughing and crying. That's what I want. Outside the circles, food and drink, photos and the rare video of me. Maybe. When the party is over (and it is intended to be a party), my remaining family gets to take the package of my remains home. Put me up on the shelf with the ancient remains of my long dead cats. Put me out in the garden and let me feed a beloved tree. I don't know. I don't care. But don't bury me in a box, in a hole in the ground, and walk away from me. For some reason, that image makes me deeply sad. Plant a new tree, just for me, and bury me under it. Toss my dust out over a forest, but make use of me in some fashion that helps the Earth and the plants I love so well.

Finally, back in reality, the service is over and the majority of the family and my dad's closest friend Joan, pile into cars and head over to the grave site. Here's the plot that mom had purchased. An undistinguished section of grass with a small, rectangular hole cut into it. "Grass" carpeting covers the pile of soil next to the hole. Note that it's big enough for 6 cremains...apparently mom is planning on throwing an eternal party there in the ground. The undertaker pulls out a blue velvet bag, puts dad's cremains into it and lowers it into the hole. Then he pulls out a second bag that holds the purple cloisonne urn that contains all that remains of my maternal grandmother. Mom had her on the mantel at home and had been waiting to bury grandma with dad. There's room in this spacious plot for mom, one day far off into the future. She's planned ahead, my mother has.

The priest says a few more things. I think the line ashes to ashes comes up, but I can't remember now.

Suddenly, the first note of a bagpipe hangs in the air, and the funeral party turns, as one, in surprise to face him. I have no idea what song he's playing, but this might be a close match.

And damn! but didn't every single one of us who hadn't cried in the church and had been toughing it out, we all started to cry. Me, my cousins, my sisters, all of us. My mom turned to Joan, and they hugged and laughed through the tears. It was Joan's idea to have a piper, just as she was the one who arranged for a piper at Cindy's wedding, years before. It was beautiful, haunting, sad and just perfect. One small thing. A man alone in a graveyard, playing a haunting tune.

When it ended, we wiped our tears away and leaving my dad and grandma there in the plot meant for six, we drove off to the church.

To the after party.

Well, what else do you call the part where you get together with the other mourners and eat food at banquet tables in the basement of a church? That, my friends, is an after party.

The funny thing is that there was an after, after party back at my mom's house afterwards, but I have to run. I'll finish this post and include those pictures tomorrow. I just didn't want to break my monthly posting "streak".

My love to you.

A Vigil for My Father

[I'm now back in Colorado, and after a week of getting the house and garden in order, I'm ready to finish the tale.]

On Monday, July 4th, Dad was cremated.

I can honestly say I don't remember what all we must've done on Monday, but I know that one fact for certain. On Tuesday we held Visitation Hours at the funeral home for dad.

Considering that I really had no idea why we "needed" visitation hours, it turns out that the second session was the absolute best part of the whole death ritual. Even better than the funeral itself, for me at the very least.

We walked into the oddly hushed room, where the walls were lined with ancient sofas from a time long gone. Just as uncomfortable now as they were when originally purchased, no one had ever sat on them for comfort or had time to get the seat to conform to their shape. I walked in with Eric, Cindy and Jason, but without the children. We had hired a sitter to keep them from lighting the house on fire and from expiring from utter boredom at such a decidedly child-unfriendly event. Random people populated the room, random photographs were strewn across a coffee table. In the back of the room, flowers were on display; huge bouquets of flowers from friends and family members, the bank where dad worked and friends from church. The displays were lovely.

Flanked on either side by the flowers was a console table and two photos of my father.

One was from his early banking days, he was probably just 30 and looked as if he'd just stepped out of a scene from Mad Men; stiff white shirt, dark tie, sharp black suit and glasses that brooked no nonsense.

The other was from just a year ago; 77 years old and wearing one of his ubiquitous sweaters and wool driving caps.

The two photos encompassed about 47 years of his life, but couldn't even begin to express all the living that occurred between one and the next. Yet somehow they managed to capture a little something about dad. Was it the twinkle in his eye? A bit of a smirk where another might've grinned? It's hard to say just what you saw when perusing these pictures, but you definitely understood that it was my father, your uncle/cousin/friend/husband.

In the center of the console table was the urn.

It was pretty, sitting there, lit with a quiet understatement and yet a heavy presence. Here lie the ashes of a man... It suddenly struck me that all that remained of my father was in that itty bitty steel vessel and it stunned me that all of him could fit in there. A lump formed suddenly in my throat and tears leapt to my eyes. The reality of the moment settled heavily on my shoulders, reinforced by the abnormal hush, the somewhat dusty scent, the ancient sofas and striped wall hangings.

It took me a moment to collect myself, catch my breath and find my words once more. Quiet greetings murmured to people I didn't know, people I should have known and cousins I'd never known about. We took a break for dinner (and yet more doughnuts) and then returned for the final set of visiting hours and the eulogy. In the second hour, the folks I recognized began to appear. They trickled into the room in groups of two or three; cousins, old friends from dad's Jamaica days, his school friends, his nieces and nephew. My family. My parent's community. The characters that all held memories of dad that differed from mine, slices of his past, pieces of his personality.

My kid sister (fun to still call her that, at 32 and a mother of 2 children) took to the floor and read the eulogy that she had prepared and had printed out in 18 point font. It took up three pages, not because it was just that long, but because the font size was that large just in case it became a tad difficult to see. Smart girl, that one.

She told us of early morning piggyback rides down the stairs and coffee shared with a 5 year old; Christmas stockings that were never large enough and overflow candy ending up in size 13 shoe boxes beneath the stockings. She asked us to remember him as he was, not as he became and not as a victim of Alzheimer's, because dad would've wanted it that way.

When she finished, she looked me in the eye and wanted me to take the floor. I wasn't ready yet, so I had Dawn (my older sister) go up instead.

Dawn spoke of dad's years as a track star and how he could still beat her in a race back when she was in high school. How he spoke of practice and working hard at your goals. Next it was my turn.

Being me, I didn't want to regale the crowd with my memory of dad whilst standing up. It was rather like being on a stage, minus the trappings of an auditorium and the comfortable seats. Instead, I pulled up a bench, since I wasn't certain if I could stand and speak or if the formality of it would bring me to tears.

In my memory, we were somewhere in Canada on a family camping trip, deep in the woods, roughly 27 years ago. Dad and I had gone for a walk away from the family and tent, down towards a distant lake. As we walked along through the forest, we kept quiet and listened to the jays calling overhead; the sound of leaves and small branches crunching damply underfoot; smelled that rich aroma of pine and decay and fresh air that permeates a forest; felt the breeze on our cheeks and we just were there, together. Just us. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene. At the lake was a single loon, calling. I called back and it responded as it swam. We called back and forth for awhile as my father watched me, quietly amused at my antics. As the loon swam out of sight, dad took my hand and we turned to go. Just a father and a daughter. Quietly together, far from home.

As I finished and stood up, I turned to my brother whose turn had come to speak. He had chosen to speak last for reasons of his own.

He started off well enough and then the tears overtook him. Seeing him struggle, I was overwhelmed with empathy and grabbed a handful of tissues for him, then stood beside him as he collected himself and carried on. I figured he needed to say whatever it was he wanted to tell this room full of folks who had come to pay their respects. So I stood there, with my arms around my not-so-little little brother who towered over me at 6' tall and supported him as he spoke. We may have our issues, he and I, but in that moment, he needed someone and I stepped up. I don't remember what he said, exactly, but I remember he was glad when he was done and shuddered in relief.

After we 4 kids were through, a small trickle of cousins and friends stepped up to share their stories.

One of my dad's nieces, Nancy, told us a story about how dad would visit and turn their entire house upside down.

That's Nancy, standing behind Mom and Joan.

He'd bring laughter and joy with him when he came to see his eldest sister and her brood. He baked a pineapple upside-down cake, doubling the batch which spilled out of the pan in its enthusiasm and then woke the kids to come have a slice, in the middle of the night. He made them laugh. He took them camping. He had them stay with us in NY while they were visiting or in school, or just passing through. I love their memories of him, so filled with life.

The stories continued from one person to the next. Words wrapped us up together in comfort; laughter burst forth sporadically and we passed the time together, if not happily at least meaningfully and joyfully.

Pat tells the story of the engagement ring.

Dad's oldest friend, Joan, was the last person to speak.

She told us of a terribly mischievous boy, forever hounding her and leaving her bruised, who somehow turned into a perfectly bidding boy at the call of his mother. She also explained, once and for all, that she was not, nor had she ever been, his girlfriend. The room rocked with laughter and mom, who had been sitting next to Joan the whole time, laughed long and loud and tightened her grip on Joan's hand.

Mom knew all the stories. She'd heard them all again and again.Over the years, mom had turned into my father's external memory deposit. She kept all of the strands of his past together in her head, since he couldn't anymore. And while she didn't say a word or share any of her memories of dad that day, she thanked each person that spoke in turn and warmed herself with their words.

Death Rituals

Eventually, after a few more tears were shed, the whole family walked out into the garden to start dealing with the matter at hand. Phone calls to friends and family members were made. Discussion about our desire to donate dad's brain and how to do it were addressed. The funeral home was contacted and the nurses were thanked for all of their hard work.

I flipped my Dark Humor setting to On. Tired of crying, I decided to try a different tactic.

My brother asked if we knew what kind of a funeral we wanted for dad and then suggested a Jamaican one. I couldn't let that slide and exclaimed, "What?! You want rum and fist fights? Awesome! Let's do that!"

Cindy then eagerly suggested a bagpiper, then Dawn suggested a trumpeter and I declared that we should do both for the thrill of it. Mom listened to us riffing back and forth and looked a little...perturbed. She was trying not to laugh, but she was also red eyed and trembling on the edge of crying again. I figured she needed a good laugh and kept being ridiculous. Pretty soon, I latched onto the phrase "Dad would've want it that way." and used it to support almost any idea we ran across.

Doughnuts? Dad would've wanted doughnuts. Story time at the funeral home? You betcha. Rum? Absolutely. Pie? Dad really would've wanted us to have pie. (To date, we still haven't had pie. We need to work on that.) And so we passed the time. Outgoing calls, incoming calls, a short round of discussion over whether the local University could have his body or not (By the way, did you know there are brain banks? If you, or someone you know, has a disease like Alzheimer's and wants to donate their brain to help continue research and eventually find a cure, you can donate just your brain. Or, if you'd like to help further medical research as a whole, you can donate your whole body.), we voted not to give them his body if they weren't going to use it for Alzheimer's research. After numerous phone calls my older sister, the nurse, found the right person to get dad's brain to and that bit was done.

The question about whether we'd have an open casket funeral followed by cremation was stomped flat. No one within our family or among dad's friends needed to see dad like that. It was a situation where my silly little phrase was completely useful. Dad never would've wanted that. Instead we opted for immediate cremation. When the van came to take dad's body away, the nursing home staff lined up in the corridor like an honor guard. He'd only been there a few months, but they got to know him pretty well and everyone loved my mom who was there every single day he was in there. We thanked them, said goodbye, and then trooped down to the funeral home to make the last of the arrangements.

Never having lost anyone close to me before, fortunately, I was all at sea when it came to local funeral rituals. What are "visitation hours" used for? Who goes to those? Can't we just skip to the funeral and interment? Why are those are done separately? What about all of those scenes in the movies where herds of mourners are at the grave sites and the famous Dust to Dust speech is given? Clearly I had a lot to learn.

Oh, and in case you were wondering? Funeral homes are kinda creepy. Yeah, you say, you're not surprised, but when you come face to face with an ancient print of Little Bo Peep on the wall that screams horror movie ghost girl at you, you'll know what I mean. Antique furniture that you just know was bought when it was new in the 1800s, depressingly serious wall colors, quietly consoling artwork and the casket room added to the Creep Factor. It wasn't scary, per se, but kinda spooky. Sounds seemed oddly muffled.

As I mentioned earlier, my dad had been dying for a long time and yet mom never got around to choosing an urn. So when the director asked if we wanted to pick it out, we said yes and three of us trooped after him. Up a rickety set of stairs into what would be the attic, with its oppressive slanted roof, where several caskets were on display up on lucite Xs. It's important to note that when not in use, clear lucite Xs should be stored flat along a wall unless you want a 6' tall man, distracted by a room full of coffins, to put his foot right through one.

Oh, yes. Oh, yes he did indeed.

We stifled some laughter at my brother's expense and turned our attention to the shelf full of urns and a rotating display case full of...coffin bling.

I kid you not.

There, on a rotating rack in front of the shelf full of urns, was a selection of what was clearly meant to be coffin or urn adornments. There was an open mouthed bass; a plaque with trees and a lake enscribed with the word Dad; a flowered disc and other items that I can't recall since I was too busy trying not to giggle. Once Cindy made ooh-ing noises about the fish, all I could focus on was how to redirect her interest in case she got serious about it. Veto plans firmly in place, I turned my gaze to what would be the final resting place for my dad's ashes.

Turns out there are all kinds of urns available in all kinds of shapes, colors and sizes. On the way up the stairs, I had threatened my brother with a pink flowered box for dad's ashes and sure enough, there was one waiting. Instead, we all chose the simple stainless urn inscribed with a Greek Key. Dad would have approved. Another bonus: you couldn't attach any bling to it. Fish crisis averted! Decision made, we trooped carefully back down the stairs. My gaze traveled across caskets with pink interiors, fluffy cream colored pillows, engraved brass plaques that declared this to be Dad's Final Resting Place and lids carved with images of trees and deer. I was suddenly glad that we were skipping right to cremation. You can spend an awful lot of money on a tricked out box!

I'm pretty certain dad would've wanted us to save the money for rum and pie.

In the office once again, we finalized the text for the obituary (Those things can get pretty long!) that Cindy had been working on; arranged for cremation on Monday, visitation hours on Tuesday afternoon and the funeral and interment on Wednesday morning. As it turns out, there's a lot of Red Light, Green Light when it comes to funeral planning. Religious funeral? Church. Catholic? Funeral with eulogy. Not Catholic? Eulogy during visitation instead. Mass with service or without? Would the children do readings during the visitation service or the funeral? Readings needed to be on the approved list. I really had no idea.

Updated to add: Cindy reminded me about the Ashes Issue. As we were wrapping up, Cindy remembered to ask for some of dad's ashes to be set aside for scattering, per his wishes.

Cindy suddenly remembered that dad had wanted his ashes sprinkled over the Hammond River and asked the funeral director to save some. "Not a lot!" she added, hurriedly, in case he got the wrong idea. "Just some. A little." I looked at her oddly, a light dancing in my eyes and barely restrained myself. "What?" Clearly I was being a pain.

"You're worried you're going to get a big old bag of ashes to haul around, aren't you? A one pound bag of Dad." Horrified, Cindy began gesturing emphatically and attempted to explain. I laughed at the image of a gallon sized baggie of Dad being thumped down in front of her for scattering, but the director assured us that he understood completely. Second crisis averted! We were totally getting the hang of this!

Decisions made and one burning personal question answered (What happens in cremation if you have a metal hip? What do they do with it? Could you get it back if you wanted it?) for my brother,* we went home to mom's house. We all declared it was time for Rum.

Fisticuffs optional.








*No pun intended. Seriously. I even said it that way while we were in the office. Let's just call it a Freudian slip and move on, shall we?

The Final Farewell

After a fast shower and a leisurely brushing of teeth (mine had grown a bit hairy during the long drive), we left Eric behind with the children and drove off to see dad at the nursing home. We were assured he was still alive at this point and responding to others when they spoke to him.

Now, the thing to keep in mind about where we are in the Maritime region is that everything is about an hour away from wherever you happen to be at the moment. Want to go to mom's house from Cindy's house? An hour's drive. Want to go shopping? An hour's drive. Want to run out to the store and grab some milk? An hour's drive. So, going to the nursing home from Cindy's house was going to be...an hour's drive. After I'd spent three days driving with a sense of urgency, you would think that another hour would be easy enough to bear, but that drive wasn't leaving me just yet. Not until I had a chance to see him would I know whether I could step down from Red Alert or not.

As we drove, Cindy and I caught up. We talked about dad, mom, and the miracle of getting my brother Ian to fly in. He would be arriving later that evening with his sweetheart, Deb. Mom was thrilled that he'd be there. We three sisters were convinced that this is what dad was waiting for before he could let go of this existence. The weather was lovely, so many degrees cooler than Colorado, and so much more moisture in the air that it was just a bit like swimming. We drove, reminisced and wondered if we'd make it in time.

As it turned out, we did. We pulled into the Centre and walked in through the security doors. Since some Alzheimer's patients tend to go on walkabout when not supervised they have a keypad lock on the door and large, serious signs about making sure the door was shut all the way and that no patients were lurking about, waiting to make a break for it. The building was surrounded by lovely gardens, maintained by a team of volunteers. I appreciated the lush beauty of it just as I appreciated how very different it was from the depressing look of the hospital in January.

We opened the door to the Palliative Care Room and walked inside. There, on the hospital bed was my father. Cindy had warned me, but there's really nothing you can do to prepare someone for what a loved one looks like at the very end of their days. He was a husk, a mummy, the bare essence of my father. His eyes were still the same, if unfocused and rheumy. He was so very thin, as if all his life had burned up while trying to hang on, just a little longer. Long bones exposed, his hands curled into stiffened claws, his cheekbones sunken in. I held back tears, because I wouldn't lose it just as I walked in the door. I could be strong, at least for a little bit longer.

I walked around the side of the bed to where he could see me and said, "Hi dad!" He worked to focus on my face; his eyes found mine. Did he know who I was at the very end? He did recognize my voice, somewhere deep inside? Did he think I was mom or Cindy or some long remembered relative? I don't know and it doesn't really matter. I remembered him and I had made it in time to say goodbye. Again.

I don't remember what I nattered about for a couple of minutes, but I do remember telling him that we'd had a very long drive. I then joked that I wish I could tell him that we'd flown in and "boy, were my arms tired!". At that old joke, he smiled. He smiled. He was still in there. He'd heard me and smiled at my stupid joke. At that point my ability to tough it out failed and I excused myself and walked out into the garden just outside his door. My face crumpled up and the tears came. Cindy hugged me, hard, as I cried. Dawn came up and wrapped her arms around us both. It was so awful to see him left as just a shadow of his old self; that huge, bluff, loud man we knew as our father. I cried for myself, for my father, for my siblings and our children; for all that we had lost, all that we'd had and all that he'd never been able to do. All of those things he'd kept on putting off until "tomorrow". A tomorrow that never came as all of his yesterdays were erased bit by bit.

Cindy congratulated me for making it that long without crying. Then we walked it off a bit by wandering around the garden and admiring the plants, so lovely, lush and exuberantly alive. Peonies bursting open like slow motion fireworks, hostas with leaves the size of platters. Mom came out, traded off with Cindy and walked with me. She was all choked up.

The thing you need to know about my mother is that she hardly ever cried when we were kids. Apparently these days, tears were never far from the surface. All of those years of being calm and cool had dissolved as her husband of 44 years faded away. I always figured that since he was 12 years older than mom that he'd pass away first, but I never imagined it would be like this. Mom cried a little as we walked and talked. She felt guilty for all the things she should've done. That she should've spent more time just sitting with him when he asked her to. I told her that I often felt the same way about the twins and Caitlin, but that someone has to wash the dishes, do the laundry, sweep the floor. She'd done a fantastic job taking care of dad, all by herself, for all of those long years. She had no need to feel guilt for what else she might've done.

No one could have done a better job of taking care of dad than mom. The doctor expressed his surprise and deepest admiration for all of her work. That he'd never seen anyone as advanced in Alzheimer's in such excellent shape when dad was checked into the hospital in January. He was still ambulatory, he could still speak and eat on his own. I reminded her of all this and told her how strong she was, how proud I was, how heroic she was for taking care of everything. She amazed me.

Now we waited for my brother to arrive; we expected Ian and Deb to arrive at 11:30 pm that night. Dawn, Cindy and I were convinced that dad was hanging in there for mom who was holding him through sheer willpower. Making him wait, just a little longer, until Ian arrived. A steady stream of mom's choir friends came by with cookies, bars, sandwiches and fruit. Time slid by, slowly and steadily, as dad went in and out of a fitful sleep. His labored breath sounded as if he was scuba diving; bubbly and thick. His final bout with pneumonia would be his last.

Finally, Cindy and I drove off to pick up my brother. We warned him that it wasn't pretty. We told him it was going to be hard. I may have used the term "mummy", my black humor was the only thing between me and constant tears. Even with that preparation, he was aghast at what he saw. The last time he'd seen dad was for the twins' 3rd birthday party. That man was long gone. He cried. We cried to see him cry. Mom cried from happiness that he'd finally made it. Dad woke up a bit for mom who asked him to say hi to Ian. He got agitated, although we don't really know why. Was he in pain? Was he tired of listening to all of our voices?

We walked out into the garden to give dad space and told Ian how glad we all were that he'd made it in time. That he showed up.

Sometimes that all it takes. Just show up. Be there for the people that need you.

After awhile, we went back to Cindy's house to sleep. I had had 2 hours of sleep in the last 40 hours. As we drove, I tried to stay awake for Cindy, who was driving. Tried to keep her awake so that we didn't get into any untoward meetings with deer upon the road. I blinked in and out of consciousness as we drove. I passed out entirely when we crossed over the river on the ferry. I felt drugged, heavy and uncoordinated as we climbed up the stairs and into bed. How much longer did dad have? Would mom call us if he passed away in the middle of the night? During our drive home? Early in the morning?

First thing in the morning, Cindy called to check in and dad was still hanging in there. Around 2 pm, mom called. Dad's breathing had changed to agonal breathing. The end was very near. We needed to get there ASAP. We flew out the door and broke every speed limit between here and there. When we arrived, I recognized that sound. Those final breaths. We talked to dad for just a bit. We each said goodbye. Strangely enough, he seemed to be mouthing something. Was he trying to say something to us? What was he trying to say? Cindy swears it looked like he was saying, "Mom. Mom. Mom." over and over again. I couldn't disagree. Was it possible he saw his mother? He tried to reach out, but was too weak. His hand fell back into his lap again.

Mom, Ian and Deb weren't there. Mom had run home for a quick shower; Ian was off washing the car as mom had asked and getting lunch. Was washing the car the funereal equivalent to tearing bedsheets and boiling water?

Cindy was concerned that dad may have been in pain and called one of the nurses in. A pair came in to help readjust him to ease his breathing and give him another shot of morphine to keep him comfortable. As they left the room, one poked her head out the garden door and told us that if we needed anything at all, to call for them. I think she knew, right at that moment that the game was up. We went back inside and stood beside the bed. I recognized that he was fading away at last and that he wasn't waiting for mom and Ian to return. My eyes filled up with tears and a lump formed in my throat.

Dawn stood across from me and held dad's hand. She told him it was OK and that we'd take care of mom for him. That it was time to go. That it was OK to go. Cindy stood next to Dawn and couldn't believe it. I was nodding that yes he was going, then he had one last breath and I shook my head no, but then there was that long, last, slow exhalation and nothing more. After a moment of stunned silence, we held each other tightly and cried. Our tears fell freely at that point.

Gone. All gone. So quietly. Peacefully, even.

We pulled ourselves together just a bit and I asked what time it was. Roughly 4:05 pm. Dawn called mom who was terribly upset that she wasn't there. We figured dad was waiting for her to leave so he could go. Sneaky, stubborn dad. There was a problem, because Ian wasn't back yet. We didn't know where he'd gotten off to, so Cindy jumped into the car to go collect mom and bring her to the nursing Centre. As we waited, the nurse came in to verify my father's death, to check his vitals, and to set the funereal gears into motion. Just a few minutes later, my mother and brother walked in (My mother's house, fortunately, was not an hour away from the nursing home.) and cried. My mother kissed my dad goodbye.

My brother kissed my father on the forehead when he thought no one was watching and whispered something to him.

It was over at long last and we had all made it. We were exactly where we needed to be.

The Race Cross Country

My sister Cindy called me at 6 am on Monday morning, June 27th, and told me my dad was dying.

Since he was in the final stages of Alzheimer's, he'd been dying for a long, long time, but this was it. She had called a month ago and said we were getting close to the end, but this was the final curtain call.

We had planned on going out mid-July, but I had made it very clear to both my mother and Cindy that if anything changed that we'd drop everything and come out earlier. A month ago, they said we should just continue with our current plan. Monday morning, everything changed. Dad had had four bouts of double pneumonia since January. Four times he was dosed with antibiotics and three times he bounced back.

Not this time.

I answered the phone, voice rough with sleep, to hear Cindy's voice choked with tears. "You need to get here. Soon."

Suddenly, our leisurely search for a house/plant/cat sitter plunged into full gear. Mountains of laundry were washed; e-mails mailed; plans made; friends contacted.

All of the plants that I'd grown from seed that were still on the back deck needed to be dealt with before we left. Tomatoes, bell peppers, basil, and parsley needed to be rescued. I couldn't just run off and let them die. At some point I would be back and would regret it if I didn't take a few hours to pot them all up. It was also something to focus on instead of freaking out while all of the laundry whirred in the washing machine and dryer. Something to keep busy with instead of sorting through memories of my father. I asked Eric to buy me 3 large bags of potting soil, two more very large pots and set to work. Later, I'll be glad I did it, I assured myself.

Finally, at 1:30 pm on Tuesday, we were ready to go. I'm sad to admit that a great deal of yelling occurred as we rushed the kids into the car. One of the main reasons we bought the minivan, in all of its hugeness, was to make this very trip. Trying to fly was prohibitively costly: well over $6000 for all five of us and there was no way I was going to go alone. I knew I'd need my support system. I also knew my mom would want to see everyone. So we yelled. We hollered. We packed. I baked 2 dozen muffins for the trip and finished writing up my Taking Care of Hatchetville note to leave for my friends who were watching the house.

Then we hit the road.

We drove for 12-14 hours the first day and slept in a hotel somewhere in Nebraska. We repeated that long day of driving and slept somewhere in Pennsylvania. On Thursday, we hit the road around 10 am local time and drove forever. Eric was beginning to flag after about 12 hours, but my urgent need to be there kept me awake and sharp. I drove through the night. Through upstate NY, Massachusetts, New Hampshire and finally saw the sun rise while flying through Maine.

Just before the border into Canada, I stopped and let Eric take over. It was 5:30 am and I had just driven us to the edge of my ability. Now we only had an hour and a half to go to get to Cindy's house. I had slept for a total of 2 hours in the last "day".

At 7:30 am we pulled into Cindy's driveway and knocked on her bedroom window. "What does it take for a girl to use the bathroom around here?!" I called to my befuddled younger sister. She was amazed we'd made it there that early. We checked in with mom and my older sister and dad was still hanging in there.

Waiting for us.

Waiting to say goodbye.

I spoke to my father today

and the conversation went like this:

Me: [Cheerful] Hi dad! [In the background, I can hear mom explaining who I am to dad.]
Dad: [Breathing]
Me: [Still cheerful] I just called to say happy Father's Day!
Dad: [Breathing]
Me: [Beginning to crumble a little] I love you, dad. I'll talk to you again later.
Dad: [Breathing] OK.
Mom: [Takes back the phone]

Now, my younger sister had given me a heads up as far as what to expect from dad so I wasn't surprised. Also, his conversation skills on the phone had been limited to about 30 seconds to one minute this last year or so, but this was clearly the next phase in his Alzheimer's progression.

As sad as this was, I took the fact that he responded to my "I love you" with "OK" as a win. Normally (and by "normally" I mean back when he used to know who I was) his response to "I love you." was "Same here."

He's only ever told me "I love you" about three or four times my whole life, so that "OK", that acknowledgement of my existence on the phone, was good enough for me. I'll take it. How far have we come that listening to my father breathe at me on the phone and say OK is all I need from him? To know, logically, that this is the normal progression for Alzheimer's victims, and to accept it are two very different things.

I can't help but hope that if there is a heaven, that dad will get all of his memories back when he dies, and can remember that we loved him. So very much.

Happy Father's Day, dad.

Regrets

I don't know about you, but here's what I've learned about myself: I've never, ever regretted spending more time with my family.

No matter how inconvenient or expensive or late or distant a trip might have been, it has always been worth it to go. To attend. To be there for whatever event may have occurred. Weddings. Funerals. Anniversaries. Birthdays.

Sometimes it was just dinner.

It's always been worth it.

Now the issue is illness.

And here I am, in Canada, with my mother and sisters, brother-in-laws, nieces and one nephew. I am here, because here is the right place to be. My dad is not doing well. My mom needed me to be here, although she never asked me to come. She wouldn't have, because she doesn't ask for things like that. She doesn't make requests for herself.

She's used to being The Rock. She's not used to being on the receiving end of caring. However, I knew that I needed to come out and see her now. Not in a few months from now. Not after I've processed the emotions I'm currently running through (Grief. Remorse. Fear. Sadness. Horror. Anger. Disbelief. Loss. More fear. Anxiety.), which will take quite awhile. Not when it may be more convenient for me or I can find a cheaper flight, or any of a billion reasons excuses that I might otherwise come up with to not come.

Now is the time to be here. The troops have rallied. My sisters and I are here. Even if we can't do anything for dad (And honestly, we can't. There's nothing TO be done.), we can be here for mom and for each other. Even if all we did was sit around and stare at one another over dinner for the week I'll be here, we can do it together and provide each other a shoulder to cry on (That would be my job: to cry.), an ear to listen, someone to bounce ideas off of, or just to chat about completely unrelated things (So, this one time in Band Camp? No...wait...we talk about raising children and gardening and food and I listen to weird stories about television shows I know nothing about and offer completely unsolicited marital advice and tips on child raising because I'm such an expert. Ayup.) and to sometimes even laugh.

Even though dad isn't going to look up and recognize any of us and you can't really hold a conversation with him and you certainly can't resolve any outstanding issues you may have with him, you can still show up and be counted. Maybe he will look up suddenly and recognize me for a moment. He probably won't. But if I wasn't here to see him myself, I would never have even the slimmest chance of that happening.

Each time I see him, my heart breaks a little more. It's true. Each time I see him, I have to say goodbye. Each time I say goodbye, there's always that chance that I never will see him again. Hell, I could get hit by a bus and he could outlive me by years and years. You never know.

You never know when your "last" visit will come. Not with anyone.

I'm not willing to waste time making up excuses for why I can't come and see my father or my mother, or my sisters and their children. I'm not willing to waste my life waiting for the "right time" or "enough" money.

Now is the time.

Now is the only moment we have.

I have no regrets. I am exactly where I should be.

Even though it hurts.

The Healing Power of Tears

"Go ahead and cry," my mother said to me. "Tears will heal you."

If only they could heal you. If they actually possessed a magical healing power I would capture them all in a cup for you and anoint your brow with them; your eyes with them; your ears with them. If I covered you in my tears would you come back to me? Would you remember me? Would you awaken from this walking sleep that holds you?

If I could brew you a bittersweet draught from my tears that would strip this fog away, I would cry every tear for you. I would weep again at all of the sadness I've ever caused you; all the pain I ever inflicted on you; all the anger I engendered in you. I'd weep for all of the things you've lost. All of the people you've lost. All of the years you've lost.

But it doesn't work. These tears I can't shed in front of you go unused. Dripping down my cheeks, they land useless in my hands. Only my eyes are changed by their passing. You remain the same.

The hollow man. A ghost of your former self. A shadow. A shade. A revenant.

Where are you? Where have you gone?

Are you still in there? Do you rage inside your mind when we don't understand you? When you want to communicate and yet can't? Do we frustrate you when we can't translate what you want or need into a form we can understand?

I want you to know me. To remember me. To recognize me.

Just for a moment. Just for a minute. Just a bubble of memory that will cause you to look me in the eye and let me know that you see me.

It's still your voice, your chuckle, your hazel eyes that look back at me. 

Dad? Daddy? It's me. I'm here.

Come back.

I miss you. We miss you. We love you.

Please.

These tears are for you, though you may never know that they are for you or that I am yours. To you, I am no more than the smiling stranger with the tears standing in her eyes.

But I know. I know you.

I miss you.

I love you.

I'm sorry.

If Food::Love as Plants::Hope, Then...

Family::Heartbreaking.

If you've ever known someone with OCD tendencies and had that person work for you within their realm of obsession, have you ever stood back and marveled at the work they completed?

My father is definitely on the OCD spectrum when it comes to things like gardening. He was feeling restless, according to Mom, so she asked me to come up with something for him to do. Of course in my garden there's always something to do. Weeding that was left far behind in the distant past. All sorts of little "I shoulds..." laying about, laughing at me. Weeds getting taller by the day.

I had a patch of lamb's ears (See the bottom photo in that link and imagine everything to the right of that section being overwhelmed with lamb's ears.) that was rapidly taking over the yard that I kept meaning to get to, but everything else was a higher priority. Tomatoes! Farming! Twins! Hummingbirds! However, that didn't matter to the lamb's ears. They just kept on growing.

Until Dad came along.

He spent the better part of the week working away at it and did a fantastic job. While he worked on his section, I weeded to his left (When the twins let me out of the house.) and we talked. We don't talk about anything really deep, just gardening or the twins or what it was like for him growing up (He turned 75 this year.). It was really good and terribly heartbreaking at the same time. As we talked, it became apparent that the Alzheimer's is stripping away parts of his identity. His memories slip away in the midst of talking about them. In the middle of a sentence he'd pause, stare at the ground and then shake his head bemusedly.

"Nope. It's gone."

Whatever the thought was, no matter how trivial or sublime, ends the same way. The same shake of the head, his hazel eyes watery with age glance at me ruefully for a moment and then he tells me "It's gone.". He doesn't look frightened, although I am. I think the medication he's on helps him to be calm during these bouts with forgetfulness. You can try to trigger whatever the memory was, but only if you were completely following the conversation and were able to guess what he was about to talk about next. Mostly we just let those moments slip past like tiny fish in a stream: too slippery to hold for long and not big enough to make a meal.

Dad relies on Mom to remember for him, even things that happened well before she was born. I'm not sure if my mother has my father's entire history memorized or if he just thinks she does, but she does a great job of filling in parts you might really want to know. He is able to recall memories from way back in his personal history (Pre-Hatchet Era.), but can't recall anything within short term memory or even back when we were kids (And let's face it, for some of us that was ~40 years ago!).

Every time we get together I can't help but wonder if he really remembers who I am. He and mom are forever calling me Cindy (My younger sister's name.) and calling her by my name (Cindy complains that they call her by my name when I'm not around, so I guess we're even.). They've been doing that since I left for college, so it doesn't seem related to the Alz. I do worry, though, that he'll forget Caitlin and the twins. They are definitely in the short term memory category! So far, though, he seems to remember them or does a good job of faking it.

He was really pleased with the twins and thought they were beautiful and delightful and he commented on how happy they seem. I told him that Eric and I make a nice baby and that he and mom didn't do so badly, either!

When the week was up, after spending day after day in the garden digging and clearing away overgrown plants, he talked about coming back again next year. Considering that at the beginning of the week he had been asking my mom when they were going home again every few hours, this was a huge score!

In addition to the gardening, I tried to make him happy while he was here by focusing on food.

My father has a sweet tooth the size of a Mastodon's, so that was no small feat. I made a test birthday cake for the twins and made sure he got a nice hunk of it with ice cream and then sent mom back to my brother's house (Where they were staying.) with half a cake. I brought him a huge slice of cheesecake for dessert after he and mom watched the kids for us while we escaped for a dinner out. I made waffles with raspberry sauce and whipped cream, a peach cobbler and the pièce de résistance: Chocolate Peppermint Bark. I had sent some for Christmas last year and it was such a hit that mom was only able to get a single piece before my father demolished all the rest. I thought if he liked it that much, I should indulge him again, especially since I didn't send any for his birthday in May like I had planned.

He loved it. He remembered it. It made my whole week.

Saying goodbye on Tuesday was tougher than I expected it to be. I think it's because even though he says he plans on living until 93 and then haunting me, I'm never sure if I'm ever going to see him again. His health is as rocky and pitted as his memory. While he talked about coming back next year to do more work in my garden, I'm never certain when I'll next see him or if this time is the last time. It makes little things like saying goodbye heavy and fraught with meaning.

What did I say during this trip? Did I tell him I loved him enough? Did I show him I loved him enough? Did he enjoy himself? Was he happy?

I tried. I really tried. In the end, that has to be good enough.

There might be a next time, another chance to pay careful attention to our relationship, but there may not be. I don't want to spend all of the time between now and when I see him next wishing I'd said something more or done something differently. His Alzheimer's has shown me that we too often take time for granted. Time to make amends or another chance to say what we really mean instead of just doing it right now.

The thing is, we may not have that time. We don't know.

In the end, I can say that I did my part to pay attention and tried to make him feel loved.

Even if he never says it back.

I love you Dad.