One Step forward, two steps back

We thought we had a diagnosis, one step forward.

The symptoms changed...again. Two steps back.

Now, maybe we are on to something. Elevated ammonia levels in the blood, an indicator of liver failure. This also causes confusion and lethargy, and "dementia-like" symptoms. Not that this is any better, but there are methods to deal with this condition, primarily through diet.

My father has been diagnosed (this one is legit) with non-alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. Something caused scarring in the liver and he has had a lot of problems since. A LOT of problems.

Now, on to new doctors.

Tonight, after I heard this, I began to think about my father.

Some thoughts were sad, but I tried to remember the fun memories, the funny ones.

My dad was always really "stuffy" when it came to public display of affection - it did not happen. He was equally as quiet about "personal relational" discussions - what happened in the bedroom was private, and not to be discussed, ever.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, when my dad and mom were young - long before I came on the scene, he was a young soldier in the U.S. Army, and she was his bride. They were somewhere, far from home, and had spent the day with their new friends, another soldier and his wife.

That night, they went back to their respective "quarters", which just happened to be next door to each other. Later that night, my dad was watching the old (it was new then) movie starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez, the one about the long trailer.

My dad was sitting in a wooden rocking chair and as he laughed (it is a funny movie), he would make a lot of noise (not to mention he laughs kind of funny), and his chair would hit the wall! Well, for a couple of hours, all the neighbors heard was a "thump, thump, thump" and my dad making a noise that sounded like, "hee hee hee...hooo...hooo"... over and over.

The next day, the neighbors treated my mom and dad like...WELL, you could at least try to have the decency to not disturb people!

If you knew my dad, you would find that funny. By the way, he told me that story when I was about 35 years old.

Back to the present. Sitting here in the living room, watching some sappy movie (sorry - I still like it), "Sleepless in Seattle." I think I like it because there is a song, "Stardust" from a long time ago, that was my mom and dad's "song". I know, it is silly, but now as he is getting to the point we are starting to say our goodbyes, and everyday it seems he is a little more packed, a little closer to leaving, these memories rush in like a flood.

Other memories, funny ones, how I used my bother's terrible case of athlete's foot (so bad, you thought his foot was rotting off his leg...P.U.!) to force my dad to stop the car near a favored truck stop (we were driving from Atlanta, Georgia to Florida), we would hop out and run to the truck stop before he could recover from the noxious gasses!

Do you think he knew what we were doing? After the 4th or 5th time?

I think he did.

I think he enjoyed the show as much as we did.

Hang in there Dad, we are trying to get some treatment that makes sense...

It Begins

It is not something you ever plan for.

Your parents should live forever, with a strength and a vitality that never ends. Their mortality brings our own lives into question. In this never ending assembly line of humanity, we take a step forward, we change. Take another step forward, change again. At some point, we get close enough to the front of the line, we can see the end.

Then, as we take our next step forward, the one in front of us is at the end.

The important place to be is not number one - it is number two.

Since I am speaking in circles, let me clear it up...

We are born...we live...we die.

Somewhere in between these three events, we laugh, we love, we cry, and most importantly, we learn who we are and what we were meant to be. Hopefully sooner than later.

So, as the generation before us nears the end of their journey, and we are standing in position number two, it is our job - no, our CALLING, to enable them to depart this journey and start the next with dignity, surrounded by love, knowing their purpose has been fulfilled.

They had meaning. They counted.

We are better because of them.

My father is 73 years old. He has slipped from a healthy, strong man, into a frail feeble little shadow of himself. He "almost" meets the criteria to be diagnosed with dementia, only the working of his memory keeps him out of that classification. If we were in Europe, rather than the United States, he would have dementia.

This is the beginning.

3 days ago, it was Father's Day.

This weekend, he came over and we had dinner together, and he gave me a card. His handwriting was never elegant, but was smooth, and...well, I liked it. I tried to write like him when I was younger.

Now, it is difficult to read his writing, and sometimes hard to understand the words.

He wrote, "I don't know what I would do without you."

I gave him a card, and he stared at it for a little longer than normal, then as if he had read it, he said thank you.

I wondered if he really read it.

Later, after his doctor's visit, I learned he probably did not. He is unable to maintain attention long enough to have read and absorbed the information.

This is the beginning.

My father, standing in position one, is facing the darkness of the end of this journey. Sometimes, he looks over his shoulder as if to make sure I am still here.

I am here, right behind you.

Number two.

I am here, and though I think it is my job to help you face this time with dignity, I know you.

I know your character.

You are the man I would yell for in the night, when as a little boy I was afraid.

You are the father that ran to my side when I was hurt on the football field.

You are the man that stood by me when I needed it most.

Now as you face the darkness, you are no less courageous.

I am behind you, I am number two.

When the time comes and you answer the call from the darkness, I will be there when you run once more, when you step into who you are meant to be.

This is the beginning.