[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments of Martia's sub for July

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

Another in a series of memories aboutt the father. Very nice. 

It is a fair rendition , including the good and bad. 

But mostly the bad. The descriptions of his memory loss isheartbreaking.  

I love it. 

Like each sip of a finewine, I savor every second with my 95-year-old Dad. Minute by minute, we createnew memories from the precious few moments that remain. Every word Dad utters,a simple “Oh, hi” or “Look” is invaluable because the remaining words are sofew. I cling to each lonely syllable.  This sentence is confusing.

 

I don’t want to forget whenDad, the consummate Patriarch, was in charge. He’d proclaim, “Sit down overthere” or “Go find your mother.” when there were still complete sentences. Asan Air Force officer and chemistry professor, Dad’s vocabulary was abundantwhile I was growing up, but the most recent coherent conversation I recallhaving with my father was about three years ago. He was 92. Mom was stillliving. Dad was worried about who would take care of “his wife” after he died.I reminded Dad that he had worked hard all his life to provide security for Momand his children; that he needn’t worry about a thing. My words seemed toreassure him.

 

I witnessed Dad’s confusionthat Father’s Day; he recognized his children but not his grandchildren; hetoasted his sons and sons-in-law but later had to be reminded that he was afather, too. 

 

My first glimpse at Dad’sfailing mind occurred during a family dinner when we were talking about ourannual holiday ski trip. My father had skied downhill for nearly half acentury. For 20 years, he sponsored a team of family members to compete in ourannual benefit race for visually impaired and blind skiers. Two of Dad’s fourdaughter s , including me,were born with a genetic eye disease which causes progressive vision loss. Momand Dad were among our biggest supporters, but at age 91, Dad couldn’t rememberever participating in the benefit race - even after detailed reminders. Was itjet lag? Mom and Dad had recently returned from travel abroad.

 

“It’s like I went to England andcame back without a memory,” Dad commented to me privately. The realizationthat he couldn’t remember our annual event shocked us both. 

 

Dad started struggling tofind words at about the same time. Then, Mom passed unexpectedly ahead of him.After that, my father’s vascular dementia seemed to accelerate and hisconnection to the present began to blur at the edges. A lifetime of brilliantcolors mixed and muted in his mind like the setting sun. His memories of Momand his children are now forever locked away.

 Such a beautiful turn of words, he last  few lines.

I cherish my own memoriesof talks with Dad, although I was in high school by the time we formed a trulypersonal connection. Naturally, my most vivid childhood memories are of playingwith my siblings or neighbor children, favorite clothes, climbing trees, andsneaking lunchbox desserts after dinner; Mom cooked and cleaned at the fringes.Dad was “there,” in the tradition of many dads at the time, I suppose. He left forwork before breakfast, arrive home in time to watch the evening news beforedinner, and then retire to his office to correct papers or “do” what Air Forceofficers do when he wasn’t TDY. A typical child, I was oblivious to how billswere paid or how my new school shoes were purchased each year.

What is TDY? 

Perhaps my earliest memoryof my father was one of my earliest memories in my own life. I was looking outthe back window of our black Rambler as New Mexico faded into the horizon and we headed for theColorado Rockies. I was four. I imagine my father was driving the car, movinghis wife and five children (one more would arrive in Colorado)to his newest assignment at the Air Force Academy near Colorado Springs. 

 

Honestly, I don’t rememberDad being relevant to my life until I began lurking about him, attempting toearn an allowance as an adolescent. My father came to understand his parentingrole late in the game. Mom paid the price when Dad was the emotionally-absentfather of six unruly children, but he redeemed himself as we got old enough tohike, backpack, and ski.

 

Perhaps because I came ofage in the 1970s at the same time my father retired from his military career,Dad favored me. He didn’t “play” favorites but, for whatever reason, he confidedin me, although I was the fourth of his six children. 

 

At age 16, Dad approachedme in the privacy of my bedroom with a question. He wanted to know my opinionof how my brothers and sisters would feel if he and Mom divorced. Honestly,there was so much fighting in our house at the time that I told him it might bethe best thing if he moved out. I didn’t beg him to stay. Mom and Dad didn’thave the perfect marriage, but it turned out they held on for nearly 70 yearsdespite my advice. 

 

When I was a young adult,Dad appointed me to be his #2 P.O.A., the successor to his eldest son. Thisplaced me in a position of confidence above two of my older siblings, anawkward honor.

 What is POA?

Dad once collapsed into myarms after our family rescued our oldest sister and her sons from an abusivefamily situation. As I supported Dad, I felt the weight he had carried in hisrole as the get-away driver.

 I want to hear about that one.

That’s only one example ofhow Dad has been there for his children and grandchildren any time we’ve neededa helping hand. He forgets, but I remember. If ever I forget, I pray that mydaughters will remember

 

# # #

 

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