I don’t think I’ve ever really written about my father. I’ve told my journal some things, but not like this.
My father is an incredible man. I’ve always believed his life story should be a screenplay, such a fascinating life he’s led.
He is soft-spoken and humble. He’s an artist; all his life he’s worked with his hands, be it with paint, wood, tools. He’s a maker, and I learned it from him.
He’s gifted with wit, and I learned that from him too, perhaps to my mother’s chagrin. His dry humour is one of many things I inherited from his English homeland.
He has Alzheimer’s. And the odd thing is, because of that I’m realizing that I have lost memories as well – memories of him when he was more himself. As a child, you don’t think to yourself, “I really ought to soak this all in. I should remember what Dad did today. I should consider his self, who he is, and treasure our time together.” But when your dad starts to change, and you realize you’re losing him, that’s when you try to remember what he used to be like.
I would never have put these words to it then, but I think the father of my childhood was a man who wore life lightly. He cared immensely about important things, political and spiritual. His conversion experience to Christianity and all that came before and after made him very serious about his faith and about the reality of God and darkness and salvation. He would study Scripture earnestly. He loved to talk about what he had read, what he learned. Yes, he was completely serious about God. But joyfully so. I remember so many moments listening to him share some wonderful truth, with an amazement in his voice, a gratitude. I learned wonder from him too, it would seem.
But still, he worried less about things non-eternal. He loved to play and to make jokes, to laugh. He wasn’t always responsible, and I remember that causing some problems. But I wonder if he just wasn’t worried. He just trusted God. My mom may have a different take on it, as I’m sure I would if I had understood more.
Good grief, I love my dad so much. I love who he was, but also who he is. He’s not the same.
I think of marriage as a solemn, hopeful pledge to actively love the person you’re marrying, as well as all the people they will be. You have no idea what they will be like; we change so much. But really, this is the way every relationship progresses. If you choose to stay in the relationship, you’re just going to see lots of different people.
That helps me when I think about my dad. We really are losing him. Increasingly, he’s forgetting names, and how to do basic things. He still enjoys puns, but they’re occasional now, and most of the time he doesn’t follow whatever conversation is happening around him. He’s a different person. But we all are, aren’t we? I feel I’m unrecognizable from the me of 5 years ago, mid-college. He’s different, and I feel I’m losing him, but he would be different from his old self, even if he had all his vigor and presence of mind.
So this is the father I’m meant to have right now. It’s far from what I want. It is painful to see someone you love decline. And, he’s a wonderful man. He’s easy-going, and he still loves to laugh. He’s hard to reach in an intimate way, but he still understands affection. This is the father I have now, and I’m grateful. There’s so much that’s hard about this time, especially for my mother, as she tries to find the best care for him. There’s so much that’s uncomfortable about repeating something over and over, about explaining something simple and seeing it make no sense to him, about making sure he’s included and okay. It’s different from having a father with no disease. I’ll be honest: I don’t like it.
And I’m grateful. My sister was using this sort of phrase recently, and it helps me so much. Sometimes things that seem opposing can both exist. It’s paradox, and paradoxical things can only be reconciled in one way. I hate what’s happening to my dad. And I’m grateful for this time, for so many reasons. Our family has grown closer. I’ve learned about grief and I hope I’m growing through this. All of this is reconciled in Christ, because only in Him do I have hope and reason to be grateful. Christ understands illness; if He didn’t, He wouldn’t have worried about healing people. He considers illness to be a problem. He also has shown me so much love, such grace, and has promised health and restoration when He comes again. To remain in the despair toward which I tend when I consider my father – that would be only acknowledging one thing that’s true. That would be to live something less than true. Because there is more. There is the everyday grace, the little lights in life when my dad makes art, when he says something hilarious, when he rides his bike, when he praises God. And there is the promise of future grace, when we will be united to God, when we will all be healed for good. That is the other thing that’s true.
They don’t cancel each other out. They don’t make this whole situation neutral. This is what it means to experience life paradoxically. The tears are pain and they are joy. They are anguish and they are peace. They are love, both in grief and in gratitude.
Life is rich and full and raw, and my heart is trying to figure it out.
