Then and Now, Now and Then

In April he said he was lonely. He said I was his rock. It felt like a burden. It felt like an honor. Now I brush my hand over his white hair and he says “again.” I do it again. “Again,” he says. And I do it again. He was very proud of the fact that he could walk over a mile a day without help. His routine, which was sometimes our routine, was to walk down to Butterfield Market on 85^th and Madison. He would sit down on the bench along with other old-timers and young moms. “Could you just get me a coffee, and then, I don’t know, you pick, something delicious.” “Sure Dad.” We’ll just pretend, as usual, that you don’t have diabetes. We would then walk over to 5^th Avenue, and back to Madison on 94^th with occasional bench breaks. Or we might stop at Eli’s. Or for pizza. “And what should we have for dinner?” he would say eagerly. Almost inevitably, sushi. “Should we have a small drink? Just a small one?”

When I remained single into my 30’s and then 40’s he said—“don’t wait for someone like me. Compromise.” It was such a Dad thing to say—the idea that I was looking for someone like him seemed so absurd to me. I mean, they REALLY broke the mold. But I shot back—“You didn’t!”

I am so wrapped up in the logistics and organization of his care that it’s only when I get some distance physically that I realize we’re losing him. As a teenager and in my 20’s we were at each other’s throats. But I more than made my peace with him long ago. I haven’t seen much improvement since he got back from his most recent hospital stay. In fact, he seems to be forgetting more and more. But he is not nearly as agitated as he was, at least when I am around. As incredibly hard as it was to be around him in that state, it’s also unlike him to NOT be agitated. To see him lying calmly in bed staring at the ceiling is almost sadder. Because Leslie is not one to take anything lying down.

We are all familiar with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s 5 stages of grief: (1) denial, (2) anger, (3) bargaining, (4) depression, and (5) acceptance. But I was thinking today that it doesn’t feel linear to me (and apparently was never meant to be interpreted that way according to a couple of articles I have read)–I have gone from 1 to 5 and am now back at 3. Maybe if we get this kind of help, that kind of bed, read to him, play music, it will jar him back to who he was. I thought I had accepted his decline, but today I can’t.

Fall has always been my favorite season and I have tried to bring some sense of renewal to myself today–September 1–exercise more, eat less, wear some of your nice clothes, put on jewelry, change your attitude. And I am up in the Berkshires and it was a great day for a bike ride and easy to feel a bit happier. I am trying to separate myself from him emotionally–while it is probably near the end for him, it doesn’t have to be for me, but it feels like it. Why should I get to live if he can’t? Up until the stroke he truly lived life to the fullest–in every way. And I don’t feel that I do–therefore he is more deserving of life. The other night at dinner with friends my toast was: “to dying in our sleep.” Perhaps they were a bit surprised, but they clinked our glasses anyway.