"Why do I even - it's gonna kill me one day," and that is what sparks the thought of my still alive Father.
Alzheimer's will get him, lifestyle change or not, it will get him.
If you and I were eating lunch with him I don't think you would notice. I barely do, but dad has Alzheimer's.
It's not down the road or around the corner. It's kicked open the door, rearranged the furniture, and jumped in bed with him.
I had no intentions of writing about this moment between me and my dad, until I felt the nudge to write about risk - which is nothing more than a challenge to leave my own comfort zone in the face of someone else's needs, or saying something nice to someone that I wouldn't normally think I'd need to say something nice to. This moment with my dad has been holding the gun to my head. There was nothing good enough on the net to forward, or share, but to ignore it would be an epic fail. Almost as epic as that epically stupid phrase.
The other reason I haven't written about this is because I've officially been praying on how to share the work of God with actual moments of my life when He shows up for us but for whatever reason - we never acknowledge it. For whatever reason. This might be it - I don't know.
Last summer my dad phoned me to help set his irrigation system. A million dads have probably phoned a million sons to help do that, but my dad takes pride in his lawn and has sometimes pompously noticed the difference between his irrigation-assisted lawn compared to my water-hose-handicapped lawn. But this time he said he was getting confused with the switches and the time options, "I'm just getting confused with the, ah, switches, and all the, oooooh, what are they called, the time options." Mom says the last three stints he's has had trouble getting it done, "Your Ma, she doesn't know." This was my moment, my chance at redemption for all the yard digs over the last four years and I wanted to torture him with, "sorry, bud, can't help ya with that," and, "what? what's that, you need my help?? Say it - SAY IT!!", but I couldn't pull the rip-cord. I could only mutter three measly words - "no worries, dad, I'll be right there," fine, seven.
Dad has Alzheimer's, and while I know full well that my dad can set his irrigation clock blind-folded and in the dark better than any TruGreen Chemlawn staff member, but never better than me, I also knew the disease was the cause of his fumbling. It was the first noticeable bout of Alz that I was going to witness.
On the drive to his house I held my own dry run: "'It's no big deal dad,' and then don't make a big deal out of it. Eye contact will make it emotional. Keep your eyes on the timer. Don't make it uncomfortable." That's all that would be needed.
Within minutes we're in the garage and he's holding the timer, stubbornly unwilling to hand it over, going over what each switch does and what every arrow means. I already know what they mean because I've done this before and because I can read, but I let him ramble. Suddenly, he trips up. I catch it right away and remind myself to stay calm. He stutters, which is new to me, until he can figure it out in his head and when he feels like it's been too long he hands the timer over to me, and irritated, tells me to try, "...here, try."
I gently touch the timer making a point of not pulling it away from him until he has completely let it go with his hand. When he does, I pull it close and start setting the times of each zone. I go down to one knee and dad sits down on the foot-stool behind me. Lord knows what's going through his head.
After a moment, I hear faint whimpering, like a boy trying not to cry in front of his dad. Then I hear a sniff and a throat-clear which is the family tell at the poker table. The confirmation that my dad is crying. What do you do?
My mind raced. Alzheimers, breathing and at work just behind me, and I don't know what to do or say to my own dad.
"Set the timer," I repeat. It's easier to keep him behind me it's easier to let him cry give him space allow him that moment to mourn the loss of a small tiny little moment in Alz, it's harder to look but suddenly, against all instincts, I set the timer down and I turn to my dad, who, yeah, was crying, and I look at him and my mind goes blank but I'm looking at him and thinking thinking thinking what the hell do I say and then I blurted out:
"It's okay, dad."
Through tears and a lumped throat, he whispered back, "No, it's not - it's not okay."
My mind is racing and panicked with shaking knees, and I don't have any words and want to turn away.
"Dad, it is okay. This is part of it. We know this is what happens."
With the same hands that picked me up barely more than 40-years earlier, he covers his face and I notice his cuticles and the new wrinkles on the back of his hands and that his wedding ring is a lot tighter than probably the day that he put it on which I'll let go for now, the man is crying, but I'll return to it.
The only difference at this moment between me and dad is who is and who isn't trying to prove they're okay.
"I'm not ashamed of you, dad. I love you. I love you, dad," tears gushing down my face and my top lip in a convulsive fit that I have zero control over. I intentionally put my hand on the back of his neck and rub his head, "I don't think you're stupid. You don't embarrass me. I've seen you set this timer for 10 years, I know you can do it and I understand why you can't."
I said that. Bleeping-Amazing.
That's God showing up and getting to work if you let Him.
I had no intentions of writing about this moment between me and my dad, until I felt the nudge to write about risk - which is nothing more than a challenge to leave my own comfort zone in the face of someone else's needs, or saying something nice to someone that I wouldn't normally think I'd need to say something nice to. This moment with my dad has been holding the gun to my head. There was nothing good enough on the net to forward, or share, but to ignore it would be an epic fail. Almost as epic as that epically stupid phrase.
The other reason I haven't written about this is because I've officially been praying on how to share the work of God with actual moments of my life when He shows up for us but for whatever reason - we never acknowledge it. For whatever reason. This might be it - I don't know.
Last summer my dad phoned me to help set his irrigation system. A million dads have probably phoned a million sons to help do that, but my dad takes pride in his lawn and has sometimes pompously noticed the difference between his irrigation-assisted lawn compared to my water-hose-handicapped lawn. But this time he said he was getting confused with the switches and the time options, "I'm just getting confused with the, ah, switches, and all the, oooooh, what are they called, the time options." Mom says the last three stints he's has had trouble getting it done, "Your Ma, she doesn't know." This was my moment, my chance at redemption for all the yard digs over the last four years and I wanted to torture him with, "sorry, bud, can't help ya with that," and, "what? what's that, you need my help?? Say it - SAY IT!!", but I couldn't pull the rip-cord. I could only mutter three measly words - "no worries, dad, I'll be right there," fine, seven.
Dad has Alzheimer's, and while I know full well that my dad can set his irrigation clock blind-folded and in the dark better than any TruGreen Chemlawn staff member, but never better than me, I also knew the disease was the cause of his fumbling. It was the first noticeable bout of Alz that I was going to witness.
On the drive to his house I held my own dry run: "'It's no big deal dad,' and then don't make a big deal out of it. Eye contact will make it emotional. Keep your eyes on the timer. Don't make it uncomfortable." That's all that would be needed.
Within minutes we're in the garage and he's holding the timer, stubbornly unwilling to hand it over, going over what each switch does and what every arrow means. I already know what they mean because I've done this before and because I can read, but I let him ramble. Suddenly, he trips up. I catch it right away and remind myself to stay calm. He stutters, which is new to me, until he can figure it out in his head and when he feels like it's been too long he hands the timer over to me, and irritated, tells me to try, "...here, try."
I gently touch the timer making a point of not pulling it away from him until he has completely let it go with his hand. When he does, I pull it close and start setting the times of each zone. I go down to one knee and dad sits down on the foot-stool behind me. Lord knows what's going through his head.
After a moment, I hear faint whimpering, like a boy trying not to cry in front of his dad. Then I hear a sniff and a throat-clear which is the family tell at the poker table. The confirmation that my dad is crying. What do you do?
My mind raced. Alzheimers, breathing and at work just behind me, and I don't know what to do or say to my own dad.
"Set the timer," I repeat. It's easier to keep him behind me it's easier to let him cry give him space allow him that moment to mourn the loss of a small tiny little moment in Alz, it's harder to look but suddenly, against all instincts, I set the timer down and I turn to my dad, who, yeah, was crying, and I look at him and my mind goes blank but I'm looking at him and thinking thinking thinking what the hell do I say and then I blurted out:
"It's okay, dad."
Through tears and a lumped throat, he whispered back, "No, it's not - it's not okay."
My mind is racing and panicked with shaking knees, and I don't have any words and want to turn away.
"Dad, it is okay. This is part of it. We know this is what happens."
With the same hands that picked me up barely more than 40-years earlier, he covers his face and I notice his cuticles and the new wrinkles on the back of his hands and that his wedding ring is a lot tighter than probably the day that he put it on which I'll let go for now, the man is crying, but I'll return to it.
The only difference at this moment between me and dad is who is and who isn't trying to prove they're okay.
"I'm not ashamed of you, dad. I love you. I love you, dad," tears gushing down my face and my top lip in a convulsive fit that I have zero control over. I intentionally put my hand on the back of his neck and rub his head, "I don't think you're stupid. You don't embarrass me. I've seen you set this timer for 10 years, I know you can do it and I understand why you can't."
I said that. Bleeping-Amazing.
That's God showing up and getting to work if you let Him.
