In the Name of the Parents

I went to church today for the first time in over a year, an anniversary mass for Dad. The words have changed at mass. I used to be able to say the whole thing just like Father Ed and Father Jay, now I’m lost. People use their hands now too and I’m not sure if that’s just where we went today or everywhere. I have to say, it weirds me out and I feel bad about that but it’s the truth. Religion is strange to me, I used to argue with my CCD teachers back in the day. “How do we know we’re the right ones?” I questioned. Always running my mouth. I carry equal parts Dad and Mom.

It’s hard to believe that it’s already been a year since Dad died and I am still processing all that has happened. It was a long, steady decline with a pandemic thrown in the center of it all. Mom and Dad got older and more dependent on help, the kids went through puberty and/or entered it, and I got decidedly fatter thanks to my plunging estrogen and lack of hardcore exercise. Mom, about to turn 90, is still clinging to relics of her independence like her 2006 white Toyota Sienna which I have nicknamed her Moby Dick. She just had to get a new starter for it at Ferry’s even though she’s not driving. “I just like to see it and know it’s there and works” she said. “Over my dead body will you drive that car” I told her once. “Well, you’re not always here.” she said quite plainly. It’s not easy to lose independence. I would say “I get it” but she would argue with that and she’d be right. I don’t get it—I pray I live long enough to understand.

Mom misses Dad and what they did in their golden years—particularly before his memory really slipped away. They travelled up until as late as 2020, shortly before Dad had a heart attack and the world came to a standstill. What followed were some of the most difficult and beautiful years and I am just now fully understanding how much it changed me. I oftentimes didn’t know where or with whom to be here, kids or parents. I still struggle with that. A full-time teacher, I burned my candle at all ends and almost completely burned out many times. Looking back, I realize that we lost Dad long before he left—that’s why they call Alzheimer’s the “long goodbye”. Mom and I spent hours picking Dad’s brain and jogging his memory at dinners, there are countless videos of these moments. The kids witnessed all of this and grew up at that dining table. Then the dining room became a bedroom, the stairs got to be too much, incontinence supplies were ordered and delivered, and eventually Dad started taking all his meals in his chair. Slowly, his favorite foods narrowed down to just a couple, softer and softer as months turned into years. In the end, ice cream was the bulk of his calories and fat intake, you lose the ability to chew and even swallow well with Alzheimer’s. It’s brutal and unfair.

“Every time I go to mass, I do get something out of it.” Barb said on the way to lunch after. “But why do the priests have to taaaaaaaaaaaaalk soooooo slooooooooowly when sayyyyyyyying the masssss?” she asked, imitating that priest voice we Catholics know all too well. The priest today talked about how faith without works is hollow, that you need to do as much good as possible in your circle to confront the bad in the world today. Given the fact that Dad was one of the holiest people I have known, it’s pretty sad that not one of his children can call themselves “religious”. As I look at my “heathen” siblings and I, I see good works in each of us —some way above and beyond good, actually. We won’t go to mass next week, nor the week after, or after that. We will, however, take care of one another and our Mom—it’s just what you do as a family. Faithless though we are, looks like we all turned out just fine, Dad. The acorns are falling again, the ones that did when you left are probably now trees. We miss your loud sneeze and gentle chuckle. Most of all, we love you very much.

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