Consider the use for a shovel – digging, excavating, lifting, and moving bulky items. A shovel is a common tool found in everyone’s garage, but no one knows its importance more than my father.
In a recent conversation with my daddy, I could see his mind softly float back in time to 1920 when he was a wee lad of four. Life in San Francisco was simple and poor. Toys were of the make-shift kind and the mind was creative with an over active imagination.
“Every Saturday, I would walk to the flat upstairs and ask to borrow Mr. Flanagan’s shovel. Then I’d take it to the yard and dig all day,” he began. Tapping his right index finger to his lower lip as he always does when deep in thought, he continued, “How I loved that shovel.”
First I was shocked that he could remember that far back. After all, he’s ninety-five. I can barely remember what I did yesterday. But secondly, that he found such pleasure in a simple household tool.
“What were you digging for?” I asked.
“I just created holes. Then one day, I decided to dig my way to China.”
A sweet glint came to his fading eyes as he remembered the little boy with white blonde curls and his favorite toy, all alone lost in his daydreams.
“Wow, dad. How far did you get?” I questioned, giggling with him over the memory.
“I got all the way to my knees. Then I got tired.”
As we smiled over a moment long gone by, I began to think about all the times he’s shoveled his way through his world.
Life has never been easy for my dad. As the third child to Irish Catholic Immigrants, he grew up in poverty and responsibility was his middle name. He didn’t wake each morning thinking how he was going to have fun that day. Instead, he arose to wondering what he could do to best serve his family. This was an attitude that stayed with him into his adult years when he had a family of his own.
He found his joy in not personal pleasures but in excavating a rich family life. With his head down, he burrowed his way through the cost of private education for his four children, dug his way out of mounds of bills, and tilled the household chores to keep everything functioning smoothly.
He plowed through poor health with dignity and grace, and tilled the pitfalls of losing his wife, his mobility and independence, learning to accept them one-by-one without a complaint or self-pity.
Now I watch my dad raking a path of prayer to meet his maker when the calling comes. Creating peace with the inevitable, he sleeps, meditates, talks to God, and smiles at his only daughter every time I enter the room. My father has never known ease. Everyday had a challenge, but he faced each one with determination and drew from his quiet inner strength to rise above.
When John Madden leaves this earth, he will have left behind a beautiful garden in his children and grandchildren. His example of a dedicated life of love and prayer has planted many seeds to help us grow into honest, productive and spiritual people. He spent nearly a century reaping. I pray I can be the flower he diligently sowed and always make him proud.
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“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” – Satchel Page
One evening, while feeding my father his nightly bowl of vanilla ice cream, I looked into his wise old face and wondered what went through the mind of a man his age.
“Dad, what’s it like to be 95,” I asked, ready for an inspiring revelation.
“I have no idea,” he answered.
“What do you mean, you have no idea?” I giggled. “Think of all the things you’ve seen in your lifetime. You must have some thoughts about being on your way to 100 years old.
Opening his mouth wide, preparing for his last spoonful of his favorite desert, he continued, “In my mind I’m 21.”
Now, I know, the most important approach to life is in the way we think, feel and react to things, but what about the degradation of the body, the loss of hearing and eyesight, the fact that so much of your independence is stripped from you? And finally, my biggest horror, “Dad, what about all your wrinkles, don’t they get to you?”
Grabbing my hand to help the feeding along, he let out his typical “harrumph” when annoyed with a stupid question and answered, “All that has never bothered me. Vanity is a woman’s thing.”
A WOMAN'S THING?!
Ok, I admit it. Vanity is my middle name. That's a lesson I learned well from my mother.
In my youth, I was trained that a lady never left the house without her face on. Make-up and hair were just as essential as a cute outfit and I’m ashamed to say – old habits die hard. To this day, I’m still a slave to my cosmetics.
After handing him his rosary and a quick kiss goodnight, I walked out of his room to reassess my life. I know that youth is not just about chronological age. It’s not whether I’m wrinkle free, can run a marathon or dance until the cows come home. It’s not how sharp my brain is or if I’m still up to the task of critical thinking. It’s about my inner spirit and how old I want to be.
Old ages brings every individual two beautiful things. The first is wisdom. That gift that allows us to see deep into ourselves and treasure the richness of our lives well lived. The second is the ability to let go – of trying to impress others, to release our all self absorbing worries of image and to let go of the fact that we're not physcially who we once were, but accepting who we are now. Let's face it, even with several face lifts, we can’t stop the march of time.
I watch my dad eat whatever he wants and enjoy the taste, never worrying about weight gain. He sleeps when he needs it and doesn’t feel guilty. He doesn’t get upset over the things he can't control and, at the end of the day, he soaks in the love of the family he raised and is ever so proud. I want that –NOW!
While I’m not ready to give up my mirror just yet, and all the lotions and potions that will helpfully retard the advancement of time on my face, I will try to take my dad’s lead and mentally turn back the hands of time. I'll grab hold of the wisdom imparted so far in my 58 years and be forever be the young age of 35 (that was a good year). My body may not show it, but my joy for living will sing it loud and clear.
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In my profession as a realtor, I’m constantly shocked over the feelings buyers have about a death in the family home. In most cases, it’s an absolute deal breaker.
When my dad moved in with me, I realized that this might easily be a possibility when it was his turn to go home. At 95, he could pass away any day, any hour, any minute. I knew I needed to prepare my children.
At first their reaction was typical – “how creepy.” Could they ever sleep in the same room he left behind? But I look at this as beautiful Karma, a gift one human being can give to another.
Karma is the result of an act; a kind act begets a kind return. Unfavorable acts get it back big time. What better way to release someone you love into the arms of the Lord than from a warm home, surrounded by the people who love them most, wrapped up snug in a velvet blanket with precious memories everywhere.
My mother passed away in the sterile, dank environment of a hospital room. There were no family photos, no delicious smells emanating from the kitchen, no photographs of a life well lived. When the doctors knew it was only matter of hours, she was moved from her room to what I labeled the “death floor.” The only patients on Ward 2 were the ones about to die. It was impersonal, stark, and cold. Thank God her family was with her until the end.
When my daddy leaves me, I pray he departs from 1033 Dartmouth Lane on the wings of a snow white dove straight to heaven.
My biggest dream is he one day goes to sleep and never wakes up. And if this desire comes to fruition, I know good Karma will bless this house for generations to come. A kind, gentle soul was allowed to leave a place he called his second home. Somewhere he felt safe, respected, cared for and, above all, cherished. How beautiful will that be
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A few months ago, while visiting my dad on a one warm sunny afternoon, I found his cripple body, sitting in his recliner, staring out the bay window lost in his thoughts. I knew that look well. He was taking his favorite trip down memory lane and revisiting the days when his children frolicked in the giant oak trees across the street.
Peeking at him from behind the corner, tears began to mist my eyes. The reality of his life rang loud and clear – he was trapped in his body, in his house, in his mind, and he was all alone. It tore at my heart knowing how empty his days were. Rarely did he have any visitors, with the exception of me, and the caregivers did just that – cared for his physical needs, but not his emotional ones. There was never any conversation or discussion about the world outside, nor did they take an interest in what he was thinking or how he was feeling.
Kissing him on his forehead, I whispered in his ear, “Dad, I really want you to live with me. I don’t like seeing you here day after day all by yourself.”
Looking away from the window to his only daughter, he thought for a second and responded quietly, “I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can, dad. It will be perfect,” I encouraged. “I’ll build a ramp for your wheelchair and you can have any bedroom you want. The kids are all gone so there’s a ton of room. It’ll be fun!”
Without a thought or hesitation, he said once again, “I can’t do that.” And then to my horror, he added, “You’d bother me.”
What? I wanted to scream. I’d bother you?
Stepping back to regain my composure, I wondered how he could think this? I was always the good girl. The sweet child. His delicate rose among my three thorny brothers. Okay, I know I can be stubborn and bossy at times, but come on!
“Well, just know if this ever gets too much, you’re always welcome,” I said patting him on the shoulder ever so softly containing my shock.
Driving home later that day, I began to understand what my dad was truly saying. No one ever wants to be considered an inconvenience is another person’s life. His world had become nothing but 24 hour care and diapers. Terrified his presence would be a nuisance, he placed his decision not to come on me rather than the truth.
Would he be a bother? I wondered. Perhaps.
I knew if my father lived with me, my life would be completely altered. My freedom to come and go would vanish and all spontaneity squashed. The house would have to be modified for handicap ease and they’re be a strict schedule to adhere to – bath at 9:00 am, breakfast at 9:30, nap in his chair at 10:00, mass on the Catholic TV channel at 11:00, back to bed at 4:00, dinner, pills, brushing his teeth at 6:00, saying his rosary and bedtime for the night (along with several diaper changes in between). Maybe he was right. Things should be left the way they were.
But as the months passed, I was haunted with the knowledge that my sweet dad wouldn’t be here forever. The circle of life was slowly coming to end and I dreaded any regrets I might have if I stopped being a bother and just left him alone? There’d be too many precious missed opportunities if I didn’t grab them in the moment – in every moment.
So, I remained the pest: that gnat in his face constantly buzzing, the army of ants in his food, that fly in his ointment until he finally acquiesced. We’re now three weeks into our journey together as roommates, as emotional caregivers to each other, and as a father/daughter team who are opening up and sharing all their secrets. Our discussions are sweet as we traverse our way through the past and talk about our hopes for the future.
Is he a bother? No, he is a gift. Am I annoying? I hope so. I pray that with all my constant attention he truly knows how much I love him and how a piece of my life will never be the same once he’s gone. There will definitely be a large hole without him here for I have been touched beyond words by his grace, dignity, and love. Right up to the end, I plan to pester him with as much love that is inside me so he can take it with him when he makes that final journey home to be with my mother.
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