LOSING LUGGAGE

Last month, my dad was admitted to Hospice. It's not like when my mom died in the intensive care unit at Woodstock hospital five years ago. Then, Hospice provided cookies, hot coffee, and compassion in the corridor as we took her off life-support. That was a shorter gig. For my dad's needs, Hospice will assist him medically and emotionally, right in his room at Bickford, and no one is quite sure for how long.

Hospice provides a lot of services for the family as well. A caseworker interviews you with sixty minutes of questions, and a social worker helped me plan my dad's funeral. If you're quick to tears, they have a psychologist call you on your cellphone within the hour. I've been called three times in two weeks.

A hospice is also lodging for travelers, which is the definition I like best. Granted, this ain't no trip to Disneyland - more like the vacation from hell - and I do not like being away from home for longer than three days. But, seeing the last phase of my dad's life as a journey, the two of us on the final dusty trail - he, The Lone Ranger; me, Tonto - makes the ride a little less intolerable.

I've told my dad to "follow the light" several times over the past few months. That's right, I want him to go. I see my mom perhaps holding a flashlight to guide his way or maybe it's something more romantic like a candle which beckons my father toward her. Either way, it is my nightly prayer that Dad will give up his struggle with death and give in to whatever makes his pain go away. Traveling was something my parents did all the time because they loved taking breaks in their routine, experiencing different cultures, and meeting new people. I see them together now, at some midpoint toward the end, checking in to a hospice, both of them young again, vibrant and beautiful.

I'm not a good traveler. If you sit by me on an airplane, I'll dig my nails into your arm and ask over and over if we're going to make it. I worry about losing my luggage. It's not a big deal because I always pack the wrong stuff anyway. The point is, I hate to travel, and if Chicago was on an ocean, I would never leave home. I don't like being away from the cup that holds my toothbrush, my fuzzy blanket, and Mrs. Doubtfire, my pillow. I like breaks in my routine, experiencing different cultures, and meeting new people; I just want to sleep in my own bed right afterward.

My dad left home at 17 to lie his way in to the Army. He was an only child, raised by his parents and Ukrainian immigrant grandparents. From what I can piece together, through pictures and a few conversations with distant cousins, he had a happy childhood. He met my mother while serving during WWII in Manila. They married and moved around constantly, my brothers and I each born in a different state, until they finally settled in Saratoga, California for 25 years. Still, they traveled. Their passports were stamped in the airports of London, Germany, Vienna, Paris, Poland, Portugal, Spain, Switzerland, Sweden, Norway, Finland, Denmark, Egypt, Morocco, Jerusalem, Israel, India, Russia, Romania, South Africa, China, Singapore, Hong Kong, Greenland, New Zealand, and Australia. They were stalked by Bengal tigers on safari and stampeded by protesters in Tienanmen Square.

Both my brothers plan trips and travel to places like Croatia and Belize, so how my parents had a kid like me is pretty inexplicable. I'm the one less traveled. I'm the one who stayed home, so I find it kind of funny that this is why I'm here, on a long, strange trip after all. There is no itinerary to follow, no stamps on a passport, no worry about losing luggage. I sleep in my own bed at night. Dad and I are simply traveling together until some midpoint toward the end. Then he'll fly solo, headed for his final destination and traveling toward the light.

"GOODBYE DON'T MEAN I'M GONE"

There was a kiddie train outside the gates of the San Diego Zoo that my son was obsessed with. We were official zoo members back then and took advantage of unlimited visiting priviledges. AJ would wear his YOU BELONG IN THE ZOO t-shirt and a CUBS baseball hat; I wore size-six mom jeans and big blue sunglasses. I can still see my little boy squatting in front of the fenced-in baby animals while pointing at the sunbleached goats and fawns. We would watch gorillas pick bugs off each other, spot Koalas amongst bamboo trees, and feed elephants raw peanuts. But, most of all, at the end of the day, we loved to watch the choo-choo wind its way around the track and say bye-bye as it disappeared through the tunnel.

We always had fun at the zoo. The weather was 99.9% perfect, mommy packed a picnic lunch, and we knew we had it pretty good in our San Diego paradise. AJ never liked leaving, but the lure of waving goodbye to the little train as it followed its track around and around, over and over again each week, made it easier to head toward the parking lot.

Over the weekend, I rode a train from Dallas to Chicago called the Texas Eagle. My daughter decided to move to Arizona, broke up with her boyfriend on Valentine's Day, packed up her car with garbage bags of clothing and nine thousand pairs of shoes, and I accompanied her on the first leg of her trip. She wore a TALK NERDY TO ME t-shirt and comfortable grey sweatpants; I wore size-fourteen mom jeans and big brown sunglasses. I can still see my little girl riding shotgun covered in Google maps and pages of directions on how to program the Garmin. She screamed as I recklessly changed lanes, narrowly avoiding being side-swiped by several cars exceeding the speed limit on I-355 out of Illinois.

We drove for 18 hours with big lumps in our throats. Planning and rehashing Ali's future, crying over the broken-hearted boy she thought she would marry and was leaving behind, laughing at silly things we observered on the highway that certainly no one else would find funny - a horse's tail caught in the back of a trailer, a rickety RV with eyelet curtains. We sobbed realizing we would soon be separated by a gut-wrenching goodbye, a kiss and a hug that must tide us over for at least three months, and 1700 miles of train track.

It hurts to say goodbye to someone you love. It's not fun like waving at a tiny train on a circular track. Tears burn your eyes and a knife wounds your heart. You comfort yourself with old adages - every ending is a new beginning - when God shuts a door, he opens a window - if you love something, let it go. But letting go isn't easy, so you massage your heart with the sweet- scented oil of see-you-soon.

I've said goodbye to parts of my dad at least seventeen times. Goodbye ability to read a map at the zoo. Adios capacity to drive. Aloha naming five fruits, drawing a clock, and knowing what year it is. Hasta la vista finding your way home from a walk. Shalom reading your watch, reading books, and reading my mind. Chow dressing yourself, feeding yourself, and thinking for yourself. Sayonara someone I can talk to. Farewell remembering your name is Jack, who your sons are, and how many grandchildren you have. Bye-bye choo-choo your memory of me.

This weekend, riding the Texas Eagle, I finally started to realize how lucky I truly am. I'm prone to taking comfort in old adages and just plain grateful I have so many beautiful things in my life that make saying goodbye difficult. I love my dad with his plaqued-out brain. I'm thankful my daughter is brave enough to go looking for something she wants, even though it means moving away from home, and the memories of myself as a new mother, waving at trains with a son like AJ, are my happiest. There will still be days when life is 99.9% perfect. I know I have it pretty good. Goodbye don't mean I'm gone.

ME, CREEK, PADDLE

I hope when this is all over I still have friends. And a husband. I hope Aaron and Allison still have a mom with a sense of humor, and my happiness gene reappears intact. When my dad is out of his misery and I'm out of mine - watching him in his - I hope I don't waste too much time feeling guilty for feeling relieved that he is done suffering, and so am I. Just thanks, all of you, for your understanding, patience, and unconditional love. Without you, it would just be me, up that creek, without a paddle.

ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT'S ME, YOUR TARGET

You should see my Sunday school pin. It's five or six inches long and represents my twelve years of service, as a youngster, sitting in a windowless classroom at Saint Andrew's Episcopal church, studying the teachings of the Lord, our God. I can't remember a lot of what I learned, but, the basics - Jesus loves the little children, Noah rises and shines, and people should be nice to each other - were seared onto my poor, unworthy soul. I carry these lessons with me throughout life along with - wait your turn, don't be late, and clean your plate - like loose coins and ponytail holders at the bottom of my purse. I know where they are if I need a quarter or my hair pulled up in a pinch.

I can't say I'm religious or spiritual anymore. I don't kneel at an alter or take communion. I sleep late on Sundays and eat pancakes in my pajamas for brunch. I break commandments. But, I will say, sometimes I talk to God. I'm pretty sure my Sunday school teacher would not approve of my going directly to Him with my comments, questions, and concerns, but, along with being a lousy Episcopalian, I am impertinent, impetuous, and impudent.

Every time I want to tell God something, ask him a favor, or beg him for a sign, I always take in to account that He is very busy. I don't want to distract His attention away from a soldier praying for his safety in a dark place outside Baghdad or a mother praying for her child's health in the cold corridor of a cancer ward. I know, in the bigger picture, my problems are much less important. I can wait my turn.

Last week, I was driving to Bickford from Woodstock when I started to cry. I wasn't even with my dad yet, and the type of day it would be had not been determined, but I was extremely overtired. And, when I say cry, I mean a type of wailing that comes up from the belly, circles the room, and assaults the ears. It's earthy and primal; it's unfiltered grief. If allowed, it can fuck up a whole day.

So I said, "God, I swear to Christ, if you are there, you gotta help me out. You have to see me through this day. I need the strength to stop crying." (If you are shocked that I would swear at God, then you might not love someone with AD. You're probably not a caregiver.)

Mid-gulp for oxygen, I stopped. Like a click of the remote, from thunderous death-defying-avalanche documentary to calm drink-a-Corona-on-the-beach commercial, my tirade was over. It did not wind down with a sniffle or hiccup. I did not have to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth for a minute. I mean, I just stopped crying. It was communion on the fly. I was a target, God hit a bulls eye, a choir sang.

I don't know where I stand with my faith, but that was surely a sacred moment and something close to holy happened. I made it through the day, and the six days after, without any tears and I felt blessed.

Typically, when I ask God for stuff, the answer is no. My mom did not survive her auto-immune disease, my father was not spared the indignities that come with memory loss, and I did not make the high school cheerleading squad. But, if that was the sign I've been asking for these past five years, I'll take it. Thank you, God. I'll talk to you later.

TABLE FOR FIVE

My dad lives in room 514 at Bickford Memory Care, which is right across the street from the middle school where I teach. I visit him every afternoon around 3:30 and stay through dinner. It's brutal. Ten residents hobble and wobble down to the dining room at suppertime to repeat the same conversation from the previous meal and eat food too slippery to get from spoon to mouth. Even my father, the most far gone of the bunch, shakes his head and gives me a look that no doubt shouts HOW THE HELL DID I WIND UP HERE? I ponder the absurdity of the situation myself. My beautiful, genius father, a war hero - the guy with the PhD and three masters degrees - who once was my world, my hero really, sitting silently with virtual strangers, folding and refolding his napkin, waiting to be fed. The vital element of a family dinner is missing, and we all ache for it, though no one says a word. Everyone knows, at some level, that they are not home and this is not their table. My mind whirls back to the house on Harleigh Drive, the cabin in Lake Tahoe, Grama's house on Sundays where dinnertime often lasted two hours. We held hands as grace was said before the meal, our plates were stacked at my father's place, and we each took turns asking for a small portion of disgusting mushrooms and, yes please, gravy on the mashed potatoes. Wine flowed, milk spilt, salt and pepper passed. Conversations were learning experiences, and my brothers and I grew to be relentless, highly-skilled debaters, as well as obnoxiously opinionated adults later in life. It was glorious. I will myself not to cry as I bolster my father up in his chair and cover him with napkins. I've considered buying him a bib, but I just can't face it. I love him so much and hope, like mother bird to chick, I can deposit food into his open mouth. It would mean so much to me if we could talk, maybe debate Obama's health care proposal, but those days are gone and my father no longer remembers that he is a raging Republican who nourished a liberal Independent over a bread basket during spaghetti dinners at Grama's. At last, the first course arrives. It's vegetable soup with disgusting mushrooms that will soon dribble down my father's mouth and land on the neck of his shirt. Luckily, there are two ladies with enviable language skills who share our table for five and, while we begin the meal, the conversation inevitably goes like this: MARIE: I'm leaving tomorrow. IRENE: Oh, that's nice. MARIE: I don't know how to go. IRENE: Where ya goin'? MARIE: Texas. IRENE: Oh say, that's far. MARIE: I can't drive ya know. IRENE: Oh dear, at least it's not snowing. MARIE: I'll have to walk. IRENE: Oh my, that's a long walk. And, occasionally, at the end of the meal, the two exchange phone numbers, scribbled on small pieces of paper, which they tuck away in the pockets of their sweaters for safe keeping. I wheel my father back to his room, brush his teeth, settle him in the recliner and cover him with a blanket. I turn on the history channel, kiss him goodnight, and button on my coat. I'm hungry and looking forward to the dinner I'll share with my husband when I get home. I know I'll be back at Bickford tomorrow, and I'll sit at that table. I'm sad and I'm sorry. This is hard, and I don't know how to go. I must stay with him on this journey. I have to go the distance, and, oh my, that's a long walk.

FIRST, YOU FEEL GUILTY

In the small California town where I grew up, there was a Catholic nursing home called Our Lady of Fatima. I was familiar with it because, as a member of the elementary school orchestra, I played Christmas carols on my viola for the residents every December. Then, as I teenager, I racked up volunteer hours for church working as a candy striper. I was never comfortable being there. Aside from the sharp odors and dusty decor, I did not like being around old people who needed me to feed them, or old men, mostly, who screamed at me to get out of their rooms. I detested seeing shrunken bodies under sheets and teeth laid out on metal nightstands. I remember telling my parents, when I was ten, that I would never send them to a place like Our Lady of Fatima. Ever. I proudly announced they would live with me when the time came. They laughed and smiled at me, so young, such a baby. The inevitability of my parents growing THAT old was as feasible to me as walking with dinosaurs or flying to the moon. Five years after his diagnosis of AD, my dad lives in a memory care facility ten miles from my house. It didn't play out as I thought it might - as I hoped it would - when I was a child. My dad sleeps in a wheelchair most of the day, waits for someone to change his diaper, and doesn't eat much unless someone feeds him. He screams at the young CNA's to get out of his room. He smiles at me when I show up and looks disappointed when I leave. In between, I tidy his closet, wipe his face, clean his glasses. I wonder what I could have done differently. I sometimes cry to the point of hyperventilating and give frequent karate chops to the universe. Mostly, I feel mighty guilty about my promise forty three years ago, and believe that I'd much rather walk with dinosaurs or fly to the moon.

WHERE'S THE VILLAGE?

"This is not a tragedy. People get old; they die." That's what my 28 year-old son told me the day after Christmas because I could not quit crying. He said I was using my dad's Alzheimers as an excuse to be miserable. So, I thought...maybe he's right. It's true. My father has AD and I AM MISERABLE.

But, also true, I have been caring for my father these past five years, often times, completely on my own. In the beginning, after the diagnosis and the death of my mother, family members came and went; each doing their best to live with Dad, cook for him, and keep him safe, but nothing worked for long. My brothers moved out of state, my kids moved on with their young lives, and, eventually, I had complete responsibility for the aging, ailing man who had, at one time or another, taken care of all of us.

My father and I have been on a long, hard journey into the world of AD together. We are in the final stage; yesterday, he tried to bite me. I started this blog because I need to decompress. I don't want to use AD as an excuse to be miserable, and I have a lot to say. I am in search of a village.