Tag Archives: Aging

Peek-A-Boo

06 Sunday Sep 2009

Posted by in In the Garden, Life at Home, Soul Care

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Mystery Guest under the Roses

A few weeks ago I ran across a mystery plant hiding beneath an antique rose bush.  This pretty little plant bearing purple tinged foilage was growing where I’d sown no seed.  What was it?  And where did it come from?  

Days later, in another part of my garden, I found my answer.  Through a quick match of garden gin rummy, I learned it was the Peek-A-Boo plant.  Living up to its name —  with its small ‘eyeball’ blooms peeking out from  some sweet potato vines  —  the Peek-A-Boo wore the same purple tinged leaves as my mystery plant. 

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PEEK-A-BOOS - Spilanthes, Acmelia oleracea

Once named, other answers soon fell into place.  I recalled that it was growing there because I had planted the Peek-A-Boos in both garden locations.  In April under the rose bush;  and then in May, when the plants appeared to languish, I transplanted them elsewhere in the garden.  Or so I thought.  Now, almost four months later, I see  my late spring transplanting left behind roots — and once the environment became friendly, up grew more Peek-A-Boos. 

Outside the garden gate, playing peek-a-boo and rummy match games are not just for babies and toddlers.  I am learning just how often I hide my own real feelings, by either ignoring them outright (hoping or pretending them away) or by not calling them by their proper name.

I do this without even noticing.  Just recently I’ve talked to friends about how my father is no longer interested in my visits.  But rather than talk about the hurt from rejection, I pretend it’s not there and instead focus on this fallout from Dad’s dementia.  It’s easier to face reasons that feelings, even with myself.  Quick.  Cover it up.  Don’t speak about the hurt.  After all,  Daddy can’t help it because Daddy isn’t Daddy anymore. 

Most of my friends or family give me a free pass on such inconsistencies — on those times when my emotions don’t quite match or fit the circumstances.  But not my trusty spiritual director.  Instead he said something like, wow, that must have hurt.  And in response, my eyes uncontrollably teared up.  The feeling, with its deep roots hiding just beneath the surface of life leaked into reality.  Once the feelings found a friendly environment to live, no longer could they stay under wraps beneath their big beautiful bow of understanding forgiveness.   

Why do I play these games?  Am I afraid people will laugh?  Or worse, not care?  

Breakfast of Champions

02 Wednesday Sep 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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It is good to count on some things remaining the same, especially when life is pulling a rug out from under your feet.
Summer of '69, Jon, Christi & Mom

Summer of '69, Jon, Christi & Mom

Wheaties are just one of those constants of life.  And a few weeks back, I saw boxes of Wheaties lining the grocery store  shelf.  And though I’m not a huge fan, I could not resist bringing one of those orange cardboard boxes home.  My impulse buy was probably linked to my need to hold onto something from my past that has resisted changing with the times.

So here I sit enjoying a bowl of Wheaties.  The breakfast of champions.  I can’t tell you which champion adorns the front of the box.  But I can report that the stuff inside the box tastes just like I remember.   It’s good.  But the best part of this breakfast is that each bite stirs up memories of earlier days when everyone I loved was still here to love.

Instead of sitting at my mustard colored writing desk, I could be sitting at my Granny’s shiny and colorful oilcloth covered table.  My old window is open just as Granny’s use to be, catching the morning’s cool breeze.  Granny’s kitchen is as unpretention as she is.  For instance, Granny always stores her box of Wheaties on top of her refrigerator.  And Granny’s milk tastes funny.  At least this is what I tell Granny.  And she says something about it being fresh from the cow.  I have no idea what she means.  Old people say the craziest things.  Doesn’t all milk come fresh from cows?

But now I wonder…did Granddad keep milk cows?  It’s possible.  Granddad got bored easily, trading one job for another across the years we shared life together.  Granddad was always tinkering with something, always thinking of his next business enterprise.  He was versatile — one time operating heavy road-building machinery to some other year raising chickens…. then onto lambs.  I remember Granddad once owning a used car business; then in his final years he grew the best tasting produce — corn and watermelons and tomatoes and okra and I don’t know what else — but all of it was sold from the back of his truck, which he parked a block away from Shawnee’s Main Street.

Maybe somewhere in all those parade of jobs Granddad had milk cows too.  But against all this changing source of income, Granny always kept their Wheaties on top of the refrigerator.  I wonder now if Wheaties might have represented a thread of stability in Granny’s life, just as they do for me right now.

Summer of '69 - Jon, Christi & Dad on the Coast of Maine

Summer of '69 - Jon, Christi & Dad

I thought my elders ancient when I was young.  But of course, I now know that in the early sixties, Granny and Grandad were not so old.  They were just 50-something, my age today.  Likewise, my parents were in their late 20’s and early 30’s, the same age as my two daughters today.

These days Daddy is an old 79, to borrow a phrase of my sister’s.  And with Daddy slipping away from time, I am reminded that soon I will be the elder.  And even now in the eyes of my own grandchildren, I realize I may already be. 

 

All of these thoughts have me hungering for more than a bowl of Wheaties.  I long to hold in my hand, some old yellowed snapshots of my parents and my grandparents, especially ones that include my brother and sister and I.  And last Sunday was no different.  With no plans to do so, I was drawn to rummage through my trunk filled with forty years of musty keepsakes.  The time was well spent as I dredged up a few old photos of my parents that I took in 1969 with my first Kodak Instamatic camera.  The images are not sharp and clear.  In fact, the photos are fuzzier than my memories.  But even so, it was good to see my parents so young and vital again.

It was these forty year old photos of my young parents, who were champions of their children’s lives — rather than the champion currently featured on the front of the orange Wheaties box — that kept company with my bowl of Wheaties on my makeshift breakfast table this morning.  And as good and constant as the Wheaties were, they are no god.  And as good and fleeting as my elders were, they too were no god.  Nothing in the world can substitute for the Reality of God.  And it is  good to count on God remaining the same, especially when life is pulling a rug out from under your feet.

Life’s A Dream

25 Tuesday Aug 2009

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It helps to hold no expectations about Daddy.  Quite frankly, I wouldn’t know what to expect anyway.  And after our visit is over, I don’t really know how it went or how I feel about it.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  There is always an element of sadness.  But beyond sadness, what else can I say about these visits with Daddy?

Was today a good visit?  Did we find Daddy well?  I don’t know the answers to these questions.  Daddy was there.  We were there.  And more than last week, I think we actually connected a few times.   But the words ‘good’ and ‘well’ don’t quite fit in the same sentence with Daddy these days.   At least, not without some kind of qualifier, like that word… expected.

If soneome other than my husband were to ask after Daddy, I would say something like, “Daddy is doing as well as can be expected or that our visit was as good as could be expected.”  People would understand what this means, even though I don’t.  For what are expectations, anyway.  Yours, mine and even Daddy’s for crying out loud. Expectations are a moving target, expectations are as fuzzy as it gets.  So, if I’m trying to keep it real, to meet Daddy wherever Daddy is, it’s best for me not to lug around expecations.  When my husband asks me how Daddy was, I tell him the truth.  I don’t know.   And it’s so freeing to be able to speak these words of truth.

Today my brother Jon and I walked into Daddy’s dark nursing home room to find Daddy sound sleep. Jon reached down and gently touched Dad on the shoulder.   “Hi Dad.  We’re here.”  Just like I was looking down on a baby sleeping in a crib, I peeped over Jon’s shoulder to smile at Dad as he tried to wake himself up.  His eyes were huge–and though trite to say as big as saucers  — they were at least as big and round as quarters.  For a few seconds, maybe more, Dad wore a scary blank stare.  But once Dad found his bearings, Dad’s eyes softened in recognition.      

Daddy has always been a dreamer.  But these days, I wonder if no one were there to wake Daddy up, if Dad might sleep straight through to find himself at the Pearly Gates.  Even while we three watched one of Dad’s favorite old television reruns — an episode of Bonanza — Dad fought against sleep.  As Daddy yawned and yawned, Jon asked, “Daddy, are you sleepy?”  And Dad shook his head no.  Then I asked, “Daddy, are you have any good dreams these days?”  And again, Dad shook his head no. 

But I sense all of Dad’s life is a dream right now.  During our visits, Daddy holds a calendar in his lap, which has become his anchor to the world of time.  The calendar is the sort that comes free in the mail from local businesses at the end of the year.  Somewhere inside the front cover, it probably bears “Happy Holidays” greeting and some important telephone numbers customers like Dad should have handy.  Dad likes to flip these calendar pages back and forth –and today he flipped between the months of August and September — and though Daddy use to ask me when he could come home, Daddy doesn’t ask anymore, though for a while today, I thought he wanted to.   I fear my answer might be more reality that Daddy could bear.  And perhaps sensing this, Daddy clinged to his dreams rather than allow me to shatter them.   

Before we left, Jon helped Daddy get ready for bed while I got the bed ready for Daddy.  Then as Jon helped Daddy get in bed and tucked the covers in around him, I tuned the television in to Channel 74, which lucky for Dad, was in the midst of showing back-to-back reruns of M*A*S*H.  Putting the television remote near Dad’s hand and clipping his call button to his bed, Jon and I took turns kissing Daddy goodbye, and then whispering sweet nothings close to his ear.  

As I reflect back on our visit, I see that when we walked into Dad’s nursing home world, we walked into a world as far away from dreams as truth is from lie.  Because today my brother and I parented our parent.  And none of that seemed real.  To see Dad’s meeger life as it now is makes me think… This can’t be Daddy’s world.  Daddy deserves better than this.  But it is Daddy’s everyday world.  It’s Daddy’s world and someday it will be mine and someday it will be all of ours.  Maybe not the nursing home part if we’re lucky.  But the dying part, yes, that’s reality.  Dying is as real as it gets.  It would be closer to truth to say that it is life that is a dream, the way we live it by pretending death is not part of the equation.  Life is a dream and then we die. 

And then, what.  My faith steps in to say that then — in that world beyond death –there will be no more need for dreams.  For in that place beyond time and flimsy cheap calendars, it will be there that Daddy will receive the better that he deserves.  But until that day comes, may Daddy’s dreams be sweet. 

Dream away Daddy.  Dream while you still have breath in your body.  Dream of better places and being loved as you’ve never been loved in your life.  Dream of the love you deserve, dream for the love that waits.  Dream until there is no more need for dreams.