My dad looked for reasons to be proud of me. It wasn't easy. I was plain, average in intelligence, mousy brown hair. Despite the various lessons my parents paid for, I never excelled in anything. But my dad would BEAM when he introduced Jeff and me at work. When we would go to his office the clerks would exclaim over how our dad talked about us.
When Jeff and I were in the Music Man in high school my dad proudly put a sign on his car and rigged up a loud speaker on the top and drove around town with 76 Trombones blaring. He kept all my writings and never missed a recital or performance of anything.
When I was a student at Indiana University, my dad was traveling on the road and delighted in surprising me by popping, unexpected, into my dorm . My dad adored us, raved about us. I think we were his world.
Because my dad loved to be proud of me I would try to find things to make him proud. That is when he seemed the happiest: when he was proud of his children. So I knew it. I knew without a doubt the very instant, the moment, the second I lost my dad.
There were little signs of erratic behavior, of stubbornness. But one day I went home to Michigan City and pulled something out of my suitcase that I knew would send my dad into ecstacy. I anticipated the pinkness of his face that accompanied kvelling (a Yiddish word meaning being so proud and happy that ones' buttons might pop off any minute!). But as I pulled out my brochure and handed it to my dad with an enormous smile of 'wait til you see this!' on my face, I froze. My dad flung the paper away and said,
"Look at this zipper. See. If you pull it this way it opens. If you pull it that way it closes."
I felt my mouth grow slack and the capillaries in my eyes contract. My lips froze and my tongue grew thick
He was gone. I lost my father.
It was a horrible five years. The ravages of Alzheimers, well, I needn't explain to those who have already faced it, and those who haven't can't even imagine.
My father. My wonderful, beaming, loving, proud, precious Father. I lost him. I lost him in my bedroom the day he showed me how the zipper worked.
That is actually a scarily familiar story. Has happened many times in many versions with me and my dad. I wonder if this is what Larry meant when he said they waited too long to bring his parents closer ? i wonder if he meant they didn't recognize this till too late to prevent some otherwise avoidable problems ? I have to call him.
ReplyDeleteRobbie than you so much for commenting. I just now saw this! Alzheimer's is utterly, utterly heartbreaking.
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