"What's up, Mom?" The elderly and their families, Part 1

 Louise Aronson, geriatrician and author of the best-selling book Elderhood, was once asked for the “recipe” of a good old age. She replied with a list: “good genes, good luck, enough money, and one good kid, usually a daughter.”

In my case, I’m not sure about the good genes; both my parents died young. As a Christian, I’m not sure I believe in good luck. Enough money certainly doesn’t apply. But in terms of “one good kid,” I struck it rich, actually having two good kids.

Another leading geriatrician and old-age researcher, Joanne Lynn, writes that, “In our current system … unless you’ve got three daughters or daughters-in-law, you should count on being an old person in a nursing home.” Since Hal and I voluntarily entered a long-term retirement community, we don’t have to worry about the nursing home. But I get her point about the importance of a family that cares for and about its elderly parents and grandparents.

I remember my parents as they entered old age. My mom had long-term rheumatoid arthritis and was disabled for most of my childhood. I actually got used to it, partly due to her cheerful and nourishing nature.

When she was in her mid-fifties and completely disabled, Hal and I left as missionaries to Bolivia, taking with us one-year-old David, the light of my mom’s life. My dad was healthy and an excellent care-giver, but still, I struggled with not knowing if leaving was the right thing to do.

In the middle of our second year abroad, my aunt called to tell me that if I were ever to see my mom again, I would have to come home right away. Our mission board made it financially possible for me to fly back to Oregon, leaving Hal and David to carry on in Bolivia. I brought along with me ten-month-old Kristin.

I have never regretted those six weeks I spent in my parents’ home. Although bed-ridden, Mom had all her mental capacities and her ever sweet attitude. My parents and I had wonderful conversations. I watched a lot of Sunday television football with Dad. And, of course, they were completely enthralled with Kristin, a very lively, vocal baby who entertained us all with her zest for life.

Although death was inevitably approaching, it didn’t seem to darken the time we spent together.

Mom lived seven months after my visit, dying at the age of 57. We didn’t have the means for me to fly home for her funeral, so we had our own private memorial service in Bolivia, with our co-workers joining us, bringing the refreshments and flowers.

Several months later, it was time for us to come back to Oregon for our year of “furlough,” only to discover when we arrived that Dad was in an advanced stage of colon cancer. Wanting to spare me any worry (he was always a very private man), he hadn’t told me anything. Actually, he had been in remission during my visit home and I never even suspected.

The first few weeks in his home frightened me. I hardly recognized the man who had always been so strong and capable. I wrote this poem during those weeks:

Stranger

Your eyes miss my eyes
and stare
    over my shoulder
without aim 
without focus.
Your silence scares me.
Your trembling hands
bewilder,
you, who were so huge
and strong.
    Your teeth
    (and your dignity)
    soak 
    in a green plastic cup.
They wheel you
and feed you,
croon to you
as to a baby.
It fits you ill.
All the lights have gone out
and
    I
        stumble
in this dark.
Name yourself—
lest I flee from you
in horror.

Dad took the rest of our furlough year to slowly die. My brother and I took turns, along with an uncle, to stay in Dad’s home and care for him. Although hard, this was sacred time.

We were able to keep him in the family home, according to his wishes, up until the last two weeks of his life when his care became too hard for us to handle and we put him a nursing home. At the time of his death, all of us—Hal and I, David and Kristin—were staying in his home and visiting daily. Hal was with him at the moment of his death, giving verbal encouraging for him to let go and be with Jesus.

So now I ask myself, was I a “good kid”? Was it right for me to leave home with Mom so disabled? Should I have tried harder to attend her funeral? What about putting Dad in a nursing home the last two weeks of his life? Could I have done better?

At any rate, after the memorial service, Hal, I, and the kids returned to Bolivia for our second term of service. I felt the empty place in my heart, but eventually I came to peace, knowing both my folks were in a better place. I wrote this poem in the year after my father’s death:

Unanswered

You’ve crossed over.
October’s other country claims you now.
Through what strange and lovely landscapes
do you now wheel? What hills, what trees
or cities make you stop and stare?
What new fruits refresh you
and what music fills your soul?
What books, what ideas corral your thoughts,
and with whom do you now discuss
destiny, man and movements?
What balm for your pain,
what opiate for the memories
do they offer you? What shards of light
bleed your spirit into wholeness?
And tell me, have you seen his face,
O my father?

Only God knows if I fulfilled the role of a good daughter, but I was at peace.

The Big Thing--remembering my father

 When I was in junior high school, a Big Thing happened in the high school across the street. Really Big. The football team, the Ramona Bulldogs, won the California State Championship. At the time, I didn’t know anything about leagues or levels or any such official classifications. I realize now that we had to have been in a league of small high schools. The smallest. All I knew then was that we were #1 in the state. The best! The winners!

Ramona was definitely a football town with the Friday night games the biggest event of the week. Even for away games, people filled buses and cars to get there and yell.

The thing is—my dad was the coach. He was actually famous. His picture graced the front page of the Ramona Sentinel more than that of the president of the United States, whose name I don’t even remember.

The night the mighty Bulldogs growled, clawed, and scrabbled their way to the championship went down in history. At the noisy conclusion of the game, the team carried my dad off the field on their shoulders. Everyone was yelling and stomping and throwing their hats in the air. Pretty impressive for an adolescent daughter. I just sat in the bleachers, feeling warm and happy. I knew Dad was pleased.

The thing is—I never liked football all that much. I thought it silly how all those big boys in their stupid outfits ran around bumping into each other, then throwing other big boys on the ground and jumping on top of them. The rules didn’t make sense and sometimes people really did get hurt.

The thing is—my dad knew I thought this way, but he never seemed to hold it against me. 

He was also the Senior class English teacher. He was a writer and he liked literature even more than he liked football. He admired classical Greek culture and he told me once his job in the high school was a good Greek job. He loved the old Greeks plays and epics and he admired the Greeks for beginning the Olympic Games. He said the motto of the Greeks during their Golden Age was “a sound mind in a healthy body.” He reasoned that when he combined sports with literature, he was like the Greeks. A real Renaissance Man.

As was required of high school teachers in California, he took classes during the summer for professional enhancement. Instead of coaching or sports classes, he studied literature. He favored the University of Arizona as his sister lived in Phoenix. One summer he drove across the country to Massachusetts to study Shakespeare at Harvard.

I took Senior English from my dad. I remember as a class we read through “Romeo and Julliet” out loud. He made it come alive. Even the football players in the class became lovers of Shakespeare.

Actually, he was mostly like himself. And he let me be like myself, even though I was not Greek-like, nor did I enjoy football. For my 16^th birthday, he gifted me with a poetry book and wrote on the flyleaf, “To Nancy, for being Nancy. Love, Dad.”

So, I felt OK about the football team carrying him off the field. I would have liked it better if a bunch of writers could have carried him on their shoulders for writing the Great American Novel (a phrase he sometimes used). That never happened.

On Father’s Day I have no problem celebrating my memories of Dad. I recognize that many of my friends and colleagues have to work hard at forgiveness, at facing and bringing peace to their memories of fathers that were not so loving or appreciative. I feel privileged and blessed.

I’m grateful.