The Summer of Love and Respect

He held the sign slightly askew. It read: Jesus Saves The Hungry. Please help. As I drove by, he danced lightly back and forth on the sidewalk as if he had to pee, a disheveled Mr. Bojangles with a painful smile across his face like a stained crease.

Somewhere deep inside my tired heart, I heard the music, but then it was gone and all I could think about was will Jesus save my parents?
Please help.


I didn't hold my breath and I wasn't angry or resentful. I only drove back from the store to my parents' sweet little home here in Oregon, to continue to figure it all out with my sister.

Our father is dying, the surreality of that painfully clear now that we're here, his body shifting and slipping away to cancer like a Dali painting sitting out in the hot sun. The chemotherapy is most likely to be discontinued, with hospice to be brought in. Our mother, chronically ill with endless pain for decades, is desperately fearful she'll lose him soon; we all are. Time is that selfish friend who prefers to hang with the fun kids, not the sick or the old or the misfits. But at least our parents renewed their marriage vows two weeks ago, which is something they wanted to do for the last few years.

Of all the emotional dysfunction that can plague even the best of families, ours has thankfully fallen away for now like chunks of ice from a melting glacier, the global warming of our hearts uniting a family that once was: Mom, Dad, Sister and Brother.

When we were scared as children, they held us close. When we were sick, they cleaned us up and told us they loved us, that it would all be okay. Now our folks are the ones who are scared and sick, and so we reciprocate with love and respect. Our children will hopefully do the same for us, just as their children will do the same for them.


This is why the Mama and I made the decision last year and this year to visit family with Beatrice and Bryce, to immerse them in our collective stories, of past and present, from my family in the West to the Mama's on the Mississippi, and as many other visits in between we could and can still muster, "God willing and the creek don't rise" as my father always says.

My girls aren't here with me now. I miss them and the Mama terribly. I miss holding them close and telling them I love them.

But right now I must hold my parents close and tell them everything will be okay. Jesus saves the hungry, Mom. We're here to help.

Mr. Bojangles, dance.


"The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect -- so hard to earn, so easily burned. In the fullness of time, a garden to nurture and protect. The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect -- the way you live, the gifts that you give. And the fullness of time is the only return that you expect." 


--Neil Peart

173 words later

One hundred and seven deaths per minute worldwide. Some have many words associated with them, words that celebrate life. Some have only a few words, announcing death. Many have none.

One minute six months ago, my birth father died, the man with blue genes who had abused my mother. I say birth father because I hadn't seen him since I was 13 -- hadn't wanted to see him since then. He hadn't reached out after that point, and neither had I. I didn't even hear about it until a month ago.

One minute six months ago, two lines described his death. Twenty-five words in all. Twenty-five words that describe where he died and funeral arrangements only. Twenty-fine words that I looked up online, that I actually spent $2.50 to access in the local paper where it was published.

I have no feelings either way. No resentment or forgiveness, no sadness or relief. Nothing except maybe relief for him having to live with his alcoholism and his painful ghosts, if he ever had any.

But 173 words later, the man my mother's been married to for 33 years, whose name my sister and I took as our own, the man we call Dad, the man my sister's kids and mine call Papa, is dying. 

The radiation treatments didn't get the melanoma. It's now spread throughout his entire body. Some form of chemotherapy is next, and although his oncologist seems to think he's strong enough to handle it, I'm not sure he's sure he is. Of course we want him to live, especially Nana (Mom) who's been chronically ill with an auto-immune disorder for almost three decades. He turns 80 next month and could live years more as far as we all know including the medical professionals. He's done it before after surviving a stroke in 1994 and an abscess on his lung that nearly took him home to Jesus back in 2002.

They've both been in and out of the hospital many times this past year and we've all been up to see and help them as much as we can. Living hours and hours away isn't easy, especially now. Thankfully we were just there, enjoying a family vacation with the B-hive as well as going to medical appointments with my folks and helping to plan their uncertain future.

We all have uncertain futures, though. When Bea is my age now, I'll be 88, if I make it that far, which God willin' and the creek don't rise I will, along with the Mama.

I've put the blue genes to bed; I have two daughters of my own. As I look to what's next for us all, I wish my father the happiest of Father's Days with many more to come.

I wish all the good fathers out there the same.

Be mindfully present and love your family. Always.

 

 

The only idea I have is in what I know

Emotional paralysis doesn't have to mean helplessness, but it's paralysis nonetheless, however fleeting, thankfully mine no longer tainted with any guilt or resentment of old. Even in the moment of hesitation, the decision has already been made; the heart and mind united along the beachhead shoring up any breaches: the money to get there and back, the lost work time, the being away from my girls and the Mama.

"I have to go," I said.

"I know," she said. "We love you and we love them."

"I know," I said. "I love you."

But admittedly, there is helplessness in the helping, an oppressive feeling as if buried up to your neck in sand with the tide coming in. I arrived Wednesday night in Oregon to be with my tired, sick parents. Dad finishing his fifth week of radiation treatment for stage 3 melanoma, and Mom always struggling with a lifetime of auto-immune disorder as well as myriad of interrelated illnesses.


I watch them hold one another and I see the Titanic movie scene where the old couple lays together inside the sinking Titanic, about to go down with the ship. (This was actually based on the real characters Ida and Isador Strauss, who was the co-owner of Macy's department store. Both were offered a place on the lifeboat but Isador refused to go as long as there were still women aboard. His faithful wife refused to leave his side. The couple wasn't actually in bed when the ship went down, but rather on a pair of deck chairs.)

Whatever the story, the metaphor isn't lost on me and I again imagine us as them now; they will go down with their ship together just as the Mama and me have pledged to do, with nothing less than honor and timeless love.

I do know my being here for any length of time does help them emotionally if not physically (running errands and helping around the house). Taking my dad to his last three radiation treatments wasn't a lot, but I'm glad I was here to do it. He's amazingly stalwart and has been so each time he's faced medical adversity. Mom has the ability to draw strength from which there should be no more and does whatever she has to do, just as Dad does for her when he's well and she's not.

They thank God for watching over them and giving them strength and guidance. So do I.

I have no idea the pain they each experience -- no idea what it's like to be strapped to a table and have the sun's power channeled straight into my neck every day for weeks, no idea what it's like to be in constant pain as my body deteriorates more every day.

The only idea I have is in what I know, that I love them regardless and am glad I'm here, heart and mind united.

All done for now, Mom and Pop. All done for now.