A Damn Jewel

“Steph, you’re a damn jewel.” Dad said multiple times throughout my life, particularly when serving him an oversized strawberry shortcake or a generous pour of Grand Marnier. It’s the little things like that that I miss the most. That and the smell of him smoking a fat cigar on our deck. The very last time he smoked a cigar he got as sick as he had the previous few times; I realized that he was no longer remembering to not inhale the smoke. Like I have said, a slow thief of a disease.

“I’m 90% ok.” Dad said when he and Mom came home from the neurologist’s office with a diagnosis that we are still unclear about to this day. We knew it was “dementia” but never got a clearer picture than that. The medication they gave him was discontinued as it was deemed ineffective with negative side effects. So, we moved forward, business as usual, without having a solid discussion about what the future would inevitably look like and what he, then of 90% sound mind, would want for his care when the time came for things like incontinence supplies and the like. Mind you, around the same time, Mom was epically failing the test to withstand chemotherapy and treatment of her lung cancer by developing blood clots and skyrocketing blood pressure. With three kids and a failing marriage, my head was squarely up my ass. That was only 5 years ago but it seems like a lifetime.

As Mom rebounded from lung cancer like the battle axe she is, Dad quietly declined a little more each month. We noticed, we definitely did. However, we didn’t talk about it openly with him; it was something we whispered to one another and told few others about. Why do diseases of the mind get discussed in such hushed tones? If someone had a tumor the size of a golf ball in their brain it would not be kept a secret. I don’t think a single one of us grasped where this journey would take us and, to my knowledge, no doctor hit Mom and Dad with a blunt stick. However, we weren’t present for those appointments. Maybe we should have been. Oh well. Shoulda, coulda, woulda is not helpful now. Or is it?

Having a serious relationship in the middle of all of this craziness has had its challenges but mostly joys, triumphs, and laughs. Thomas’ Dad passed several years ago, also dementia. The way he talks about his Dad makes me feel like I know him and I love that. A big personality, his Dad and my Mom would have been thick as thieves he assures me. Both a love of chardonnay and gift of the gab would have had them conspiring to solve the world’s ills. “Your Mom is a force.” Thomas told me after meeting her the first time. “Yes she is.” I agreed. He has been unwavering these past two years and I am so lucky to have him in my life. When I stepped away from Hanson last week, he opened his door to me and made me laugh and relax—two things that are hard to do these days. He reminded me just how tough this is for Mom as he watched his own Mom let go of the love of her life. With space and perspective under my belt, I returned home with renewed respect for all who share this residence. “You are a damn jewel Steph” Thomas said to me over text last night. “Right back at you” I said “Title of my piece this week.”

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