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Published 06/05/2003 in The Post-Star newspaper By STACEY MORRIS They will arrive, you can be sure of it -- the passages of a life. We all know the story: we're born, develop, hopefully zero in on a purpose and at some point -- sometimes sooner, sometimes later -- depart. We're told of all this ahead of time, schooled in this practical deciphering of the road map through life's phases. But the funny thing about these eventualities is, no one calls you to schedule them into the day planner. They may be inevitable but they catch us by surprise. One day you notice the sudden, elongated look of a child and realize she's no longer a toddler. Or you see a five-year-old snapshot of a relative and notice unequivocally the aging process at work. Death is the most jarring of all of life's changes, partly because of it's finality and also because the time and date of lift-off are a closely guarded secret. Lift-off hasn't happened quite yet for my father, who, for the past few months, has been drifting through the latter stages of Alzheimer's disease. He's been in a hospital bed since Saturday when his legs quit on him. The most painful part has been not being able to reach him. I sit at his side, stroke his hand, talk to him, but much of the time, he doesn't know I'm there. My family and I were well-informed of the coming stages. We were given the lists of symptoms but true to the rules of life, there was no appointment scheduled into the day planners, no phone call from the interstate to say that a sudden decline was on its way. The ache of wanting to reach my father reminded me of a day at summer camp, when I was a six-year-old afflicted with homesickness. The summer camp tenure was seven weeks and it wasn't unusual to see girls of all ages walking around the grove of cabins red-eyed and lost-looking, especially during the first two weeks. It was a rainy afternoon and activities had been canceled. No longer able to tolerate the depressing confines of my cabin (shared with five other inconsolable six-year-olds), I took off. Making my way over a blanket of brown pine needles with a lump in my throat, I thought of all the things I missed back home: our German shepherd, watching The Partridge Family on Friday nights, my bed and most of all, my parents. My means of handling the transition out of homesickness was a little more tricky because my father was the owner of the summer camp -- he made frequent trips to the premises so mine wasn't as clean a break. As I walked through the rain that afternoon, I eventually reached the camp office. One of the few buildings in the grove with electricity, it stood out among the pine trees like a lighthouse. Looking through the rain-splattered window, I saw my father in the midst of directing a staff meeting, his voice muted behind the panes of glass and the falling rain. All the tears I'd been suppressing came spurting out, ungracefully and breathlessly. He was only a few feet away -- and absolutely unaware I was there. Three decades later there are ironic similarities in regard to the gulf that's now between us. Sometimes his pale blue eyes find focus on mine and he smiles. Other times he sits as still and silent as a statue. It's not time for goodbyes yet, but let's just say his bags have been packed for some time and now he's waiting at the curb. And my emotions about it are mixed to say the least. What would he want? Not this, I think, as I survey the bruises and stitches on his face, the result of another fall he took in the living room. A friend once told me that when someone you love dies, every memory of the person, especially everything you've ever done to them, good and bad, replays in your mind. In other words, prepare yourself for the regrets and try to make them as few as possible. With the arrival of this new phase in my father's life, I've already delved into a few "should-haves." The times I didn't take him on drives or have him over for dinner because I was busy with other things. There were also the occasions I became impatient with him or didn't listen to him as attentively as I could have. And then the unexpected avalanche of good memories, concealed under everyday preoccupations with caregiving and money-making. There were sublime summer evenings I'd find my father on the back porch looking up at the night sky; I'd join him in his stargazing and he'd explain why Jupiter was hanging west in the sky that night. Sometimes he'd have his pair of binoculars from the Navy in his grip and hand them to me so I could get a better look at the moon. There was the time in tenth grade when he spent night after night helping me study for a history exam on the Roman Empire. For the first time ever, I got the highest grade in the class. Sure I was proud of coming in at the top, but my happiness in that moment had nothing to do with placing first -- I remember feeling indescribable joy after getting the test back from the teacher because it was a victory intertwined with my father's loving support. Whether it's looked at as a blessing or a curse at this stage, there's still some time left. The quality of it may be limited, but there's still a precious pipeline of contact. Through it I've been given the opportunity to be present for my father. You don't always get a call scheduling it into your day planner, but sometimes, if you're paying attention, you might get a flyer in the mail. |