Some Kind of Vanilla

Mom was dressing in her bedroom when she happened to look outside at the shed. There was Dad, doors wide open, shuffling up the ramp. She threw her clothes on, scurried to the back deck and hollered “DON!! WHATAHYADOIN??!” Dad turned to see what all the fuss was about “I’m gonna mow the lawn!” he said with a good dose of annoyance in his voice. “No you’re not. It’s too cold!!” Mom said angrily. “Get back inside! Come on!” Although Dad knew to obey Mary, he was still faced with the monumental task of making it back the 100 or so yards from the shed to the deck stairs and then back up said stairs without a railing. This is why I want every person in my home to wear a GoPro.

Mom, knowing that she could not descend, coached Dad back up to the top…on his hands and knees. “You’ll never guess what happened today.” Mom said when I got home from work. “Oh boy.” I said, bracing myself for what I was about to hear. Mom was laughing while telling the story because, of course, it was funny. “I had to holler at him. Like a kid! Because that’s what I have to do. Holler.” Yelling is one thing Mom can do and it sure came in handy in this incident.

Poor Dad. Over the past two months he has declined a little more. Because I see it up close, I sometimes forget that each month brings with it some new changes. My therapist reminded me that those changes come with a new wave of grief; I pause often because of that and reflect on how this feels. “Getting old sucks, Dad, doesn’t it?” I ask him often, particularly when helping him up from somewhere. “It does.” He always agrees. “How did we get this old?” Mom asked Dad at dinner the other night. “I’m an old lady and you’re an old man” she said to him, almost accusingly. “Yes. We are.” he agreed. “One minute I was 60 and all of a sudden I’m almost 90. Where did all the time go?” Mom asked me, as if I have any answers. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” I offered. Marriages, births, deaths, divorces, celebrations, and fights have filled those 30 years, I almost feel like I’m approaching 90 too. If Mom could tell you all anything it would be don’t blink.

Today is Easter and not my favorite holiday. Two out of three of the kids are here this morning, one got to sleep over a friend’s house last night. This bothered Maire a lot, she wanted all her siblings home on the night before Easter. I felt for her, I really did. She has had to weather so much in her young life and clings to holiday magic. I, in turn, feel compelled to summon said magic though she always seems somewhat disappointed no matter what. The eggs are hidden, baskets filled, and I am sitting on the couch exhausted. Growing up, Dad always took Easter very seriously as anyone whose nickname was Pope Don Paul would. He used to get my sisters and Mom a corsage to wear to church until we begged Mom to tell him not to because we were embarrassed (I think it was me driving that begging). I still remember how that corsage smelled, it was always an orchid and although I was embarrassed to go to church wearing it, I secretly loved that he did this for us. Mom was the magic maker, shopping and filling baskets, but Dad did these little things here and there that were sweet and thoughtful. I wish I hadn’t been so embarrassed by it.

About 15 years ago, Dad started to use Easter dinner as an opportunity to talk to us all about going back to church and how concerned he was for our souls which really ticked Mom off, me as well. I remember one particular Easter when it caused a bit of a scuffle, “No, Don, you’re not doing this. Not now.” Mom chided. Looking back, I often wonder if this excessive worrying for our souls was the beginning of his dementia. He had never been so vocal beforehand. Maybe he knew he was starting to forget things and wanted to save our souls before he no longer remembered. I wish I hadn’t gotten so mad at him.

Now, it has been more than 3 years since Dad has gone to church and I wonder if he still remembers how to pray. I hope so. “What kind of cake do you want for your birthday this year?” Mom asked him the other night. “Oh I don’t know. Some kind of vanilla?” he said, questioning his own request. He turns 91 in three weeks, another milestone reached. None of us go to church yet because of him we all have a sense of something greater than us. For me, my church has been here in this home; my prayers residing in deep breaths and walks into the woods behind us. It is not glamorous here and we make a rag tag team at best. Each day, we confront the challenges as they come and they always do. We’ll continue to break bread and have Easter dinner, we’ll get some kind of vanilla cake for Dad’s birthday coming up, we’ll bustle around doing the million little things that keep this ship afloat, and we’ll toast one another time and again. Our souls are just fine, Dad, I’m sure of it. Don’t you worry about a thing.