“The pale-green moths are pressing
against the screen, fluttering, they are
dying to get in to press their papery bodies
into the light.”
– Mary Oliver
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. When all is lost, what then, is found?
Science tells us that everything is an assemblage of molecules. That, at the microscopic level, there is more that is immaterial than material. More not than is.
Yet. We participate in the world as if all that we see is stable. This magical thinking is what helps us navigate our lives. The table is flat. The chair is strong. The world is round. I am here. You are there.
I remember the moment when I discovered the malleable nature of reality. We were visiting relatives at my dad’s house in Mission. I was sitting in a wood chair. There was a thud…more of a reverberation than a sound. The walls morphed as they rippled into wave. My chair still held me, but felt liquid as it elasticized and wobbled.
As fast as it came, the earthquake was over.
There was a beat of silence, then two, then three…we sat, stunned.
In every report of natural disaster, no matter the language, the same words are heard. The witness describes the unreality of a crazy-new-upside-down world; worlds where pacific waves rear up into a tsunamis or canyon-like cracks suddenly appear in previously solid ground.
We all need to pretend our world is real, right up until the moment it is revealed that it is not.
My father sleeps the sleep of a man who has been on the planet for 88 years. His eyes flutter open. He looks at me and speaks nonsensiscal lines of language. Names of people long dead are talked about as if they are there with us, sharing the room. It is gibberish, but with all the right inflections of sentence structure. He stops, fixes me with a clear brown stare and clearly says, “You’re not following me, are you?”
“No,” I say, “I guess I’m not.”
“That’s okay,” he says, “It’s on the flip side of the video.” His eyes shut. A few minutes later, they open. I wiggle my fingers in a wave, “Hi Dad.”
“You’re always smiling,” he says, “That’s good.”
His eyes fall shut before they see my tears. I trace my finger on the back of his hand. I need to be gentle as I navigate over the bruises; blackened pools of Warfarin-thinned blood trapped beneath the paper skin. I feel his ropy veins, skirt the edges of the bandages that wrap his torn arms.
I move my fingers to his face, gently searching his forehead for the long diagonal scar. I remember the story we loved to repeat. Was I thirteen when it happened? I think so.
He’d decided to take my Apollo ten-speed down Whidden Road. He was going to get the mail. He’d never ridden a bike with hand brakes. He would discover, as he flew across the intersection, that pushing backward on the pedals no longer stopped a bicycle. He stopped it the only way he could. He drove it straight into a dirt bank.
He was gone too long. Finally, he appeared at the end of our long driveway. He was carrying the pretzeled bike on one shoulder as blood poured from a forehead gash that would later require over twenty stitches. He was grinning as he thrust the blood-spattered envelopes at Mom. “I got the bloody mail,” he said.
Did we all love that story because it described his invincible humour and strength, or was it simply the thrill of discovering our Mennonite father knew how to swear?
This is how it is now.
I am learning how to better respond to our new Alice in Wonderland converations. I roll down the rabbit hole with him, matching my words and answers as best as I can. There will be no more answers to any questions I might have.
I bear witness as the mountain crumbles into the sea.
I’ve always thought there’s something to learn every day, but it’s also important to be *present* in mind, body, and spirit in order to fully learn and understand those lessons. I went on a year-long around-the-world walkabout with a medium-sized suitcase and a small backpack; everything else was in storage. It was fun. It was hard at times. But mostly, it was a year-long lesson in patience. I didn’t know that it would lead me back here, here in my hometown, to mind my octogenarian parents. Both of whom are losing their memories, one of whom is showing early dementia. I often feel like I’m doing this alone, when I know for a fact the situation is more common than not. Reading this story helps, and I want to thank you for writing that, Colleen.
Henry, I’m sorry to hear about your parents. I think your year-long lesson in patience is definitely going to be tested.
It’s amazing how many similar stories are out there. I know so many people going through this strange journey.
I’m so thankful this story helped and I’m truly grateful you wrote to tell me that.
We are all in this together. I draw strength from knowing that other friends have either already done this, or that they’re going through it now.
We are not alone.
I have been on this road too, Colleen. Over time I found those tough difficult days I sat with my Dad morphed into memories that too are beautiful. Looking back I am so glad to have had those moments. While I/we sat with him we could still laugh as we recalled his antics. Hank and Ike were cut from the same cloth, I think.
Wonderful writing, as always Colleen!
Oh Peggy, Ike and Hank were definitely from the same batch of fabric 🙂 Those shared twinkly eyes, that always looked like they’d just pulled a funny.
You’re right too, that even the tough moments somehow transform into something that feels nourishing and right. Each time, I feel broken open, but in a good way, a way that tells me I’m here and I’m feeling life.
Thanks for taking the time to read and comment Peggy. I appreciate it.
Colleen,
That was a truly beautiful, heartfelt piece of writing. I have begun a similar journey, sadly, as my father was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I hope that I will be able to find some solace in words, as it appears that you have.
All the best,
Bruce
Hello Bruce,
Thanks so much for your comment.
I am so sorry to hear about your father. It is such a strange process to live through, but there is also something rich buried within these experiences. I really do find it comforting to know that we’re all exploring a similar path, so thank you for letting me know about your situation. It helps.
I’m sure you will find comfort in writing about it. It somehow transform the pain into something much more bearable and true.
Not sure if you know Mary Oliver’s book The Leaf and the Cloud? Here’s a little excerpt from one of her poems that I find helpful. I hope you will too.
“Would it be better to sit in silence?
To think everything, to feel everything, to say nothing?
This is the way of the orange gourd.
This is the habit of the rock in the river, over which
the water pours all night and all day.
But the nature of man is not the nature of silence.
Words are the thunders of the mind.
Words are the refinement of the flesh.
Words are the responses to the thousand curvaceous moments-
we just manage it-
sweet and electric, words flow from the brain
and out the gate of the mouth.
We make books of them, out of hesitations and grammar.
We are slow, and choosy.
This is the world.”
Take care…
I, too, loved the “bloody mail” story and could see the twinkle in his eye telling it. Sorry to hear he’s going downhill. I’ve been there too and share your pain.
We’ve been on the road home from Phoenix for the past 3 days. After a couple of treacherous days in torrential rain, sitting in the hot tub took precedence over checking FB.
Martha, it seems like everyone’s been through this, is going through this, or will go through this. I think it must be almost a necessary rite of passage for us all. In between all these epic journeys, it’s important to sit in a hot tub and be kind to ourselves…well done!
Glad you enjoyed the bloody mail story. You’re right, his eyes were generally squinted with multiple laugh lines when he told or heard us tell that story 🙂
I’m on that road with you myself, Colleen, only a little further behind. I still have my mother, who still has my father, for a while. Diagnosed two years ago with beginning Alzheimer’s, this previously unflappable man has gotten querulous and easily upset by disturbances in his routine. I don’t have either the comfort or the pain of seeing him daily, or even yearly. I think I’m in denial of their mortality and vulnerability. God bless you and your father. Keep the good, comfort the bad.
Ah Mandy…bless you too.
There are so many of our stories out there and it does (in some strange misery-likes-company way) provide comfort to know that other wonderful people are dealing with these same kinds of issues.
It must be very hard for your mother to live with this new version your dad. It’s horrible to watch, and for you, not seeing him too often, must be a real shock for you to see such a different father. I’m lucky to live only just over an hour away and you’re right that my weekly visits are both comfort and pain rolled together in a jagged pill.
I hope you get a chance to see them both soon.
We’re all in this together…
What a gorgeous piece of writing – I feel glad for you to have the skill to capture something so ephemeral and achingly bittersweet. I don’t know why it is but having these moments of exquisite awareness preserved for future revisiting is so powerful. After our loved ones (of all species) are gone, these touchstones are like pebbles of a path that bring us back into such closeness with those gone and keeps them – just barely – with us for a while longer. The description of the earthquake and molecules is stupendous, and I love – LOVE – the bike and bloody mail!
Thanks Laurie. I really find it helpful (and hopeful somehow) to work through all these intense emotions with my writing. Glad you liked the bloody mail story. It’s one of my faves 🙂
I agree that, “these touchstones are like pebbles of a path that bring us back into such closeness with those gone…” Such a strange and wonderful path it is.
Oh, I’ve been there Colleen. And you’re right – reality isn’t stable at all. Or maybe that IS the reality – that nothing is stable.
Thanks Carol. I know you understand what I’m talking about. And yes, I think that the reality is that, everything changes, nothing is ever as it appears and we need to ride with it, not against it. I’m trying my best to remember that.