Standing at the door to my bedroom, my father stood in his dark blue suit tapping his foot and stared at his sixteen-year-old daughter.
“Jackie, hurry up. We’re going to be late,” he ordered.
In the Madden family, punctuality was right up there with perfect manners and good hygiene. We were never allowed to be late for anything. Being tardy for school, church, or dinner was equal to a mortal sin. It was a sign of disrespect and punishable with near death.
“Dad, I still have five minutes,” I hissed, desperately trying not to be disrespectful. “You can’t rush a girl when she’s in the final stages of fluffing herself.”
And doing his typical “harrumphing” when at a loss for words, he pointed at his watch and said, “You just wasted one minute. You have four left.”
Since I was a child, I’ve always found it amazing that he could shower and shave in less time than if took to pour a bowl of cereal. I, on the other hand, seemed to need an entire day. Picking out that special something to wear took time and deliberation. And hair and makeup? That took an eternity. Now the tables have turned and I watch my soon-to-be 96 year old father get ready to make his final journey home.
Each day say starts with a simple routine. A shave and sponge bath in bed. Next, he’s dressed in sensible sweat pants and easy to slip on cotton shirt, then wheeled to his breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, and medication. All this takes about one hour and it’s off to his tattered and worn-out recliner for a day filled with what appears to be devoid of anything substantial. With his eyes closed, he looks like he’s asleep, but I know better.
Jack Madden is a gentle man that converses with the Lord daily in his mind, body, and soul. In those quiet hours alone in his chair, he connects with the spiritual world. I know my mother is calling him to come be with her, but he’s not ready. He has things to think about, a lifetime to remember, and people to pray for.
This journey with my dad has me constantly re-evaluating the gift we call life and a family’s role in it. Why do some die young and others live way past what is deemed reasonable and even necessary? Has medical science gone too far in keeping people alive longer than they should be? Is it a requirement that an adult child take on the care giving of their aging parent after they’ve just raised their own children? Sure, our parents cared for us when we were young, but that was their choice. They wanted children to complete them just as we’ve done. Will we be expecting the same from our children? There is no right or wrong answer to these questions. Only what works for the people involved.
Years ago, I made a promise I’d never leave my father alone in a nursing home. Has it been easy? Hell no! The house constantly smells of dirty diapers and the floors and walls are permanently scarred with divots from the metal spokes of his wheelchair. I have no freedom for he can never be left alone and I feel trapped and often angry at the unfairness of it all. The unjust fact that he’s lost every shred of his once honored independence and must rely on his only daughter for his all his bodily needs and that I’ve lost the life I’ve grown to love.
Does it have its rewards? Absolutely! With my dad by my side each day, I’ve learned not only about my heritage and the incredible human being I’m proud to call my father, but about humanity – especially mine. To be able to care for another human being despite the hardship and pain. To be able to set aside my negative emotion and selfishness because of a treasured life that has always been good to me. But most importantly, for me, because it’s been the right thing to do.
So, as I watch him get ready to give me that final last kiss good night, I pray, “God, give him all the time he wants. Let him stand in front of that mirror in his mind and study every line that traverses of his handsome face for it’s the map of where his life has traveled. Let him look into his closet and take hours to pick the perfect outfit to wear and allow him more time to comb that beautiful white hair for as long as he wishes.”
As far as I’m concerned, this is one time my daddy can be impolite and throw punctuality out the window. I’m thrilled he’s too busy to die because I’m too selfish to let him go.
Filed under Self Discovery by 
As if being chased by a mean googily-eyed monster, I ran faster than my little brother to the safety of my bedroom. Behind the closed door, I clutched the king-sized Aba Zabba in my plump, tight-fisted six-year-old hands, hanging onto the gooey taffy for dear life.
“I want it back, you Indian giver!” Timmy screamed.
Standing with my body against the door to restrain his entry, I quickly ripped apart the paper, shoving the 10 inch peanut- butter-paste filled candy into my mouth. Sure I’d given it as a gift, but I’d changed my mind.
After inhaling the bar, I opened the door to find his four-year-old tear stained face waiting. For a brief second, I suffered a pang of remorse. How could I’ve been so cruel, especially when I just downed two bags of Peanut M&M’s?
Spending the rest of the afternoon sequestered in my room as punishment, I began to understand that selfishness was not in my best interest. Not only would it result in a severe tongue lashing from my mother, but it could also be the source of someone else’s pain. This revelation as a first grader set me on a course of generous gift giving for the next fifty-two years.
My quest for atonement began at school first. I adored sharing homemade cookies my mom baked with my classmates, particularly watching their faces light up as they devoured each sweet morsel.
Later, flush with babysitting money, it was off to the mall to locate fun trinkets for my family and friends. Watching them open their gifts with unabashed excitement, especially at Christmas, brought true understanding to the phrase “it’s better to give than receive.” Their pleasure became my pleasure.
Over the years, I became quite proficient with my gift giving prowess always locating just that right special something for each individual, but this holiday season I found myself in a quandary. What could I buy my father? At 96 what does he need? He doesn’t go anywhere, so a new sweater or pair of shoes would be a waste of money and candy has no sentimental value. Finally, in one tender moment, the answer dawned on me.
Since Jack Madden moved in with me 6 months ago, our nightly routine is always the same; dinner, pills, brush the teeth, change the diaper, and a kiss goodnight. One evening, as I readied to leave, he took my hand and asked, “Do you have time to chat?”
Unfortunately, conversations with my dad are never an easy task. Due to his deafness, I virtually need to scream to be heard and I find myself repeating the same thing over and over. Tired and annoyed, knowing I still had bills to pay, laundry to do and dishes to wash, I sat back down and said, “What do you want to talk about?”
“Tell me about your day. Was it hard? Can I help you?”
Looking into the sweet, cornflower blue eyes I adored as a child, a smile crept over my tired face. His eyes clearly radiated with unconditional love for a woman he still viewed as his little girl.
“Okay, if you tell me about your childhood.”
And so began the first of many evenings together. Two kindred souls gently meshed tightly telling tales, giggling, smiling, and all intermixed with tears of pride knowing we belong to one another.
With these special moments, I’ve come to appreciate that the best present I can ever give anyone is quite simple. It’s the gift of my undivided attention and a moment of my time. The bills can wait and there’ll always be laundry to do, but I won’t always have my daddy to keep me connected and grounded. And he is a gift to me.
May this holiday season be filled with wonderful memories and joy for you and your family. And don’t be afraid to throw away your wallet and give the most amazing present of all time. The gift of YOU! I know for a fact it’s absolutely precious.
Filed under Self Discovery by
Selling real estate, even in the best of circumstances, is an emotional process. I’ve always had a deep respect for my clients who were letting go of a family home, but I never fully understood the complexities of the process until recently.
When my 95-year-old father moved in four months ago, I gained not only a roommate, but also acquired a realtor’s prize possession, a listing. Upon his arrival, he announced that he wanted me to sell his house. I knew it would be difficult to list my childhood home, but I put my realtor hat on and went to work sorting through 52 years of papers, pictures, mementos, and junk.
My parents were part of that illustrious generation that never gave anything away. If I hadn’t known better, walking into their house l would have thought I was in the middle of a frightening episode of “Hoarders.” Every receipt dating back to the early 1960’s had been stored in boxes, drawers, and containers. They kept decades worth of tax returns, Christmas wrap, and insurance statements. As I sorted our life into piles, there was no time for tears.
With three months of preparation, the property was finally ready in mid-September. After the first weekend on the market, we received multiple offers from multiple families. My dad couldn’t have been more pleased with the result.
When he asked to return so he could say good-bye, I wondered how much he’d be able to see with his eyes failing more and more each day, but we made the drive anyways.
“Do you like the furniture?” I asked of the newly staged décor.
“I can’t see it, honey, but it looks great,” he responded.
As my father soaked in each room, I began to realize that what he was seeing was not what was present, but instead what was past. In his mind’s eye, there were the bedrooms where his children slept. In the living room, the couch was still perched in the sunlight so my mother could rest her tired body, and in the kitchen, the hub of our life, he could hear the nightly conversations, mixed with laughter, around the dinner meal.
As we strolled, no words were spoken. His crippled body was bent over in his wheelchair, but he quietly nodded as we passed through each room one more time. When we arrived back in the kitchen, he turned to me and said, “It’s time to go home.”
“Dad, this is your home.”
“No, honey. It belongs to someone else now.”
We all know a house is just a building that protects a family from the elements and keeps them safe and dry. It’s the love that is created within those walls that makes it a home. Wheeling him to the car, I watched him collect his memories and carefully place them in a velvet lined box that he tucked away in his heart for safe keeping. A box he would revisit again and again.
I’ll miss that house. I’ll miss the massive oak trees I climbed as a child, the street where I learned to ride my bike, and my yellow and green bedroom where I wrote in my first journal. But on that precious day, my father taught me the freeing feeling of releasing a material possession into the welcoming arms of another for a new life to begin.
Memories are a treasured gift we never say good-bye too. The sandbox that I played in, the bathroom mirror I became a woman in, and the bedroom I dreamed my dreams are all in my mind to revisit – again and again.
Filed under Self Discovery by
As I walked into the house after a lovely vacation in the Tahoe mountains, I was hit with the putrid smell of old age; that heavy, rancid odor a musty basement emits when full of decaying remnants of a life long gone by. This mixed with the wafting stench of wet, dirty diapers made me want to vomit, turn around and run away.
Since my 95 year old father moved in with me, my life and home have been completely turned upside down. Freedom to come and go as I please is a distant memory. The walls and floors of my well kept house are covered with black marks and deep scratches from his wheelchair. This only piece of his mobility has difficulty making its way from room-to-room without destroying everything in its path. Furniture is pushed out of its perfectly scripted place so the caregiver can manipulate his crippled body and the abundance of food that is kept on hand often goes bad because he sleeps through nearly every meal. Chaos and destruction have replaced order and calm. This is my new reality.
I took a deep breath to prepare for another evening of nothing and released my father’s caregiver from her duties. Sucking up my negative emotions, I slowly went in to check on the mound of slumber in his hospital issued bed. Since he arrived months ago, my goal has been to make him feel welcome. I know he worries about being a burden, therefore, I can never admit how difficult and invasive all this has become. I feel trapped and alone. There’s no distinction from one day to the next and my life has become a dull blur and boring.
But these are the final days to the life that asked for nothing. All my father has ever known is hard work from the time he was a child. And he gave everything he could so his four children would have more than he did. Despite my negative emotions, I want his limited time pleasant and peaceful. Leaning over his useless body, I see that he’s not asleep but lost deep in his thoughts. With his eyes closed, right forefinger gently tapping his lip, eyelids fluttering, I wonder if should I disturb this quiet moment or barge in breaking his concentration? I decide on the latter.
“Dad,” I announce softly as I touch his arm. “I’m home.”
Slowly he opens his crusted eyes, focuses and begins to smile. “Oh honey. I’ve missed you so much.”
In that instant, the annoying smells, scratches, disturbed furniture and decaying food fly out the window. His unconditional love wraps me in warm comfort and I’m blessed in abundance.
“Hi dad,” I say smiling. “I’ve missed you too.”
My days with my father are slipping through my fingers. Things are becoming harder for him and he sleeps nearly 20 hours of the day. Our visits are rarer because he’s putting his life in order in his mind before he allows himself to be called home to heaven. And when he’s gone, my house will once again smell fresh and clean. The furniture will stay where I put it and all the marks will be wiped away. I’ll have my freedom back and my life with my father will only be a beautiful memory. No physical trace will be left behind and I’ll be lost in a giant hole without him.
So, to hell with the dirty diapers! Just open more windows and light sweet smelling candles. Move anything in the house that makes it comfortable for him, buy food and let it rot. All I want right now is my daily hello, a kiss or two, and to watch the man whose loved me like no other man ever has or will again sleep peacefully. For this is the beautiful gift of Karma being blessed on my life.
Filed under Self Discovery by
