The year was
2008. My cousin and I had meticulously planned and executed an elaborate grave
marking ceremony for our Scottish immigrant ancestor. I mean, it was something
to behold. Well over a hundred family members and friends turned out. An honor
guard of Georgia Sons of the American Revolution members dressed in their 18th
century uniforms. Bagpipers. The Pledge of Allegiance. The laying of wreaths.
The playing of taps. Speeches. Poems and prayers. A new VA issued headstone.
Even the television and movie personality, ‘Enos’ (of ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’
fame) who lived in the area and knew a couple of my cousins, made an unexpected
appearance.
As I recall
now, it was about this time that my father slipped into a decline which ended
with, …well, you know. Daddy was using a cane by this time, and wasn’t as
‘light on his feet’ as he’d been in recent years. But proud? Oh, he beamed from
ear to ear that a son of his had organized such an outstanding ceremony for his
great great grandfather Isham. When his name ‘came up’ in the schedule of
events, he and another young relative planted American and 2nd SC
Regmt. flags on opposite sides of the headstone.
After the
fact one is prone to reflect on the signs and symptoms and the various events
and experiences which preceded it. Thus, the foregoing description of what must
have been ‘the highlight of (my father’s) twilight.’
Within
months of the ceremony, I think, my wife and I had driven over to my parent’s
mobile home on the lake, and as usual, walked unannounced through the front
door. And as usual, as we made our way into their lakeside living room, I found
my dad dozing in his favorite recliner. As I had done many times before, I
exclaimed,
“Wake up,
Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping.”
(No one ever
accused me of subtlety).
With this,
my father roused himself from his afternoon nap, and I invited him to go
peddling around the mobile home park; (since both he and my mother had
seldom-used bicycles in their utility room). Daddy acquiesced, and we
immediately strode to his carport and retrieved our two-wheeled conveyances.
As we set
out on our circuitous journey, my father seemed a bit unsteady, and suddenly,
for no apparent reason he coasted off the street and into another tenant’s
front yard, and it was all he could do to keep from falling. When I inquired
about the incident, he brushed it off as not paying attention, and we continued
peddling. However, by the time we finished our short trek, daddy had managed to
coast into the grass again, (and yet again).
Pt. II
Fast forward
a couple years and all the cousins, in-laws and out-laws gathered at a local
church for our annual family reunion. My Aunt Nita had been hosting the event
for years, (and had done a remarkable job of it, I might say). And since my
Aunt Jean happened to be turning 80 that year, her younger sister decided to
make it a duel celebration of it.
I have no recollection of the occurrence, but
mama sometimes spoke about daddy having done something out of character …even
for him. (And believe me, he was a character).
I happen to
have a collection of photographs which were distributed shortly after that 2011
reunion. Thus, I briefly paused from this writing to check my facts. And in
short order I ran across the evidence.
A picture
cannot lie. It speaks volumes. My father is seated on one side of the table, my
Aunt Jean on the other. Between the two siblings rests a multi-colored,
triple-tiered, uncut cake …with a fist-sized wound in its side. Aunt Jean and a
few nearby relatives convey no apparent shock or disgust on or about their
countenances; as if they have decided to keep their persuasions to themselves.
Then there
was another bit of evidence which should have caused things to be painfully
obvious.
For you see,
on such and such a day my mother left for Georgia to visit with her sisters.
While she had asked my dad to go with her, he’d declined the invitation, and
assured her he would be ‘fine and dandy,’ (thank you). Well, against her better
judgment she took the trip without him. Against her better judgment since daddy
had not so much as boiled an egg or grilled a hamburger in a couple decades. As
a result, mama left instructions with my sister in law to give my father a call
once or twice a day for the duration.
True to her
word, Sharon phoned my father on the Saturday after the Friday my mother left
for Georgia. Receiving no answer, my brother, Wayne and she jumped into their
car and drove the half hour’s distance which separated their house from his.
Upon arriving they discovered my dad on the carport and seated in a lawn chair.
Of course, they found this scenario a bit unusual, as it was a summer day, as
he had never been prone to sit in front of his house; (but rather, in the swing
by the lake).
The dutiful
daughter in law immediately asked my father ‘what was going on.’ To which he
responded that he’d locked himself out of the house. While the simple act of
locking himself out of his home did not necessarily ‘raise a red flag,’ for the
husband and wife, my father having failed to knock on a neighbor’s door, and
made a request for assistance, but rather, choosing to sit alone on the carport
…did.
Pt. III
Upon
questioning, daddy explained that he’d forgotten my brother’s phone number, and
it seemed logical for him to simply …wait. (Whether he intended to sit there
until my mother’s return from Georgia is, at this point in time, impossible to
discover).
And then
there was my father’s willingness to ‘just sit back and let the world go by.’
He once made a comment to my mother.
“Erma,
haven’t I worked hard all my life?” (To which, of course, she answered in the
affirmative.
And with
this, daddy added the proverbial punch line.
“Well, I’m
done with all that. I’m going to rest now.”
And rest, he
did. Mama could not get him to leave the house. It infuriated her that he would
not so much as get in the car, and do lunch at a nearby restaurant. Just ‘bring
some back to me,’ he’d say.
A bike in the grass. A fist full of cake. An interminable
wait. A general malaise.
It was just
so easy to miss the signs. Though in retrospect one is prone to experience a
twinge of guilt and exclaim,
“How could I
have possibly missed it?”
(and)
“It was just
so obvious, ya know?”
For after my father fell in the dining room, hit his head on
the table, and was subsequently admitted to the hospital with the diagnosis of
a major stroke, an MRI indicated the evidence of several previous TIA’s; (and
we’re not talking about Tampa International Airport).
I may reflect on my father’s waning days at another time and
in another venue, but suffice it to say here that after his admittance to a
local hospital, and eventual transfer to a nursing home for rehabilitation, he
left us in the course of two months.
As I previously inferred, there is a tendency to absorb a bit
of guilt for not having immediately recognized the symptoms. In retrospect they
were crystal clear. Whether an early diagnosis might have gotten him a few more
months or years is an unknown.
Daddy was ready to go and he often spoke about his demise.
“I’m okay with leaving now or later. I’ve lived a good life.
I’ve seen a lot. I’ve done a lot. Whenever the good Lord is ready for me, I’m
ready for Him.”
I felt compelled to recount some crucial experiences which
accompanied my father’s declining health; in hopes that his story may help
someone else who contends with an aged loved one, and to put you on your guard
concerning the kind of symptoms of which I was sadly oblivious.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending
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