Happy Father's Day

Dad, Patricia and
our granddaughter, Hailey

The other day while cleaning out a drawer I came across a photo of our daughter in uniform standing with my Dad. I actually remember the day quite well.

She was home on leave from being stationed in La Maddalena, Italy. Weeks before she came home Dad asked if she would bring her uniform with her and wear it to church on Sunday. I know how very  much she didn't want to do it, but she did. Sitting next to her in church was probably one of the proudest days of Dad's life and I am proud of a daughter who would do that for her grandfather.

Those from my hometown who knew Dad are probably not aware what a soft-touch he was.  Some may remember the business man who ran a dog food factory. Others may remember the man who danced with all the girls when he and Mom chaperoned after-prom dances. (For the uninformed, during the 1960s and early 1970s dancing was a sin in Hamilton so there were no school-sanctioned dances after proms. Mom, Dad and a few other parents would rent a hall at a different location and chaperone dances). I am sure there are many boys who remember Dad as a terrifying figure who sat in his chair and could grill a young man about his intentions without saying a word.

I remember a Dad who cried when he said goodbye to me at the airport when, at the age of 16, I left for a summer in Finland as an exchange student. I remember that same Dad who, years later,  stood by the window at a hospital nursery and cried tears of joy when our first son was born.

I remember a Dad who would have grounded me for life had I even looked crosswise at a cigarette, but would sneak behind the garage with my sons and smoke with them. "Don't tell anyone. Willy thinks I quit," he would say to them. I remember the guilty look I got when I came around the corner and found them all huddled together, a thick blue cloud of smoke surrounding them. "They made me do it," he said.


I remember a Dad who would stand on the church steps after a Sunday service and announce to the world it was "time for a Hokey Pokey" and then would pile all the grandchildren into his convertible and take them out for a "Hokey Pokey" sundae at Sherman's in South Haven. Mom warning him the entire time, "Donald they haven't had lunch yet."

I miss my Dad. He was probably one of the scariest/kindest men I know. He could have my sisters and I jumping through hoops just by clearing his throat. I don't think he ever raised his voice at us. He didn't have to. One look from him and we knew we had to toe the line or else . . . what that "or else" was I'll never know because we never had to find out. And truthfully, Dad never had to say it. There were never threats.

Were we perfect children? Oh Heavens no. But there was little we could get away with as Dad was fairly well-versed in the ways of misbehavior. Dad missed most of his junior year of high school. Apparently he hung out with friends at a gas station. The next school year he had to have lunch every day with his old-maid aunts.When he would recount the story to us he made it seem as though having  lunch with his aunts was a fun thing. I am quite certain it was not.

So on this Father's Day afternoon I pay tribute to my father. Miss you Dad. But I will always remember the good times you created for us.

What would Mom have done?

We have an ongoing family disaster at our home. It's volatile, heartbreaking and difficult to know what to do. It involves one of our children and his new family. Suffice it to say blended families are seldom Brady Bunch-esque.

After yet another blow-up at our home, which I did not handle very well  I'm left feeling frustrated, guilty and sad. I can't help but wonder how my mother would have handled it.

Mom was the epitome of class. I don't believe she ever engaged in gossip. I don't believe she ever jumped on a bandwagon for a cause she didn't support one hundred percent.

When the high school in Hamilton was new and a group of parents banded together to "get ride of" an individual, the group was rather deflated when mom refused to join.

At the time I had no idea what was going on, but Mom -- when relating the story to me years later -- said she told the person who called her she would not join their "lynch mob." I was surprised at her words. I would have thought Mom would have found a more diplomatic way to say no. But there are times when brutal honesty is probably best. So I asked Mom, "What happened next."

"Nothing, I guess," Mom said. "I think I kind of took the wind out of their sails."

How cool is that?

I'm not certain how Mom would have handled this situation. But I kind of have a sense that even if she were still with us and in a normal state of mind, she would not get involved. I honestly believe she would tell me to step back and stop trying to fix things.

I have this uncontrollable need to make things better. To fix it. And I can't. I would give anything to have Mom give me instructions from the great beyond and tell me how to handle it. But I guess in a way she has. That still small voice is telling me . . . Let it go.

Never say never

Never say never again, is a James Bond film. The title is a references to Sean Connery's declaration that he would never again portray the character James Bond in a film. . . . I'm still not certain what more I can say about Mom and her dementia, but quite a number of people have asked me to continue with my blog. I'll start it and see where it leads. But as with all things in life there are no guarantees.

It's been a month now since Mom passed away.

I suppose we all grieve in our own way.

My sisters and I continue to meet for breakfast on Saturday. The first meeting was the day before Mother's Day.We agreed Mother's Day didn't hold any special significance in Mom's passing. We all have families of our own and had started our own Mother's Day traditions. Although we always had included Mom, for the past several years she hadn't known what Mother's Day was.Or Christmas. Or Thanksgiving. Or her birthday.

Our Saturday morning breakfast outings will probably continue for sometime. Much like Mom and her sisters would meet once a month for some type of  "sisters day out," my sisters and I will continue to forge sibling bonds that  had weakened while we raised families, attended soccer games and horse shows, held jobs and worked at being responsible adults. Time now to return to our roots as it were.

I miss my mother. But I've been missing her for years. The woman we visited regularly in the nursing home was not our mother. And we often ask one another, "What would Mom have really wanted?" There is no way of ever knowing. Oh, we know a nursing home was one of Mom's biggest fears. But none of us -- including her -- could have ever imagined she would have become the woman sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a diaper, not knowing who we were.

Mom had started showing signs of dementia long before Dad passed away. We chalked it up to her lack of hearing. I think in the beginning Mom -- in an effort to hide her problem from us -- would let us believe it was a lack of hearing that was causing confusion. But after a trip to Florida one spring Mom and Dad came home and Mom could no longer balance her checkbook. It had been a task that Mom had taken very seriously and their finances were accounted for right down to the last penny. (I, on the other hand, will check my balance with the bank and figure they are more right than I am and call it good).

There were plenty of other signs to which we turned a blind eye. Dad knew. And Dad was scared and concerned.

After returning from Florida Dad insisted they both go in to the doctor for physicals. Mom had had several debilitating panic attacks while in Florida. She had had several at home prior to their trip as well. Dad was adamant we find out what was wrong with Mom. So I told Dad I would take them to the doctor and go into the examination room with Mom, freeing him to talk to the doctor alone.

Dad, being of the generation he is, never told the doctor his concerns. He assumed the doctor would be able to tell what was wrong with Mom simply by looking at her.

A shame? Possibly. But truth be told there is little to nothing that can be done to stop the progression of dementia. It can be slowed, but the ultimate end is you end up in a nursing home in a wheelchair wearing a diaper.

So yes, I miss my mother. I miss her warm smile. I miss her understanding ways. I miss her sarcasm. I miss her hugs. But I've been missing them for years. So when you tell me what I'm feeling is the "normal grieving process," (and please, you have no idea how aggravating that phrase is) I guess you might be right. But it's been a long, long process.