I was talking to my sister tonight about our father.
We’ve both come to the same conclusion: He’s sad; intensely sad.
He can’t verbalize that to us it’s just something we feel inside whenever we go to see him. He’s at a current stage of the disease that I would classify as the “point of no return”.
For all we know, that plateau could have been reached months ago, maybe years ago; there’s no definitive way for us to know.
Make that a double please.
My sister and I have grown tired of the one-sided conversations that never seem to go anywhere. But we understand that they accompany the disease; we saw it with my mother and now our brains want to somehow disconnect.
I wish there were someway to reach him, to tell him about the weather or the All-Star game, to say a final goodbye and know that he somehow “gets it”.
I can’t possibly imagine of another ten years of this madness, not only for him but for my sister and me.
Please hand me the white straitjacket. And a double.
I’m listening to the Concord Symphony by Charles Ives as I write this and I’m smiling, simply because I associate Ives music with my father’s muddled and bewildering state of mind; a brain overflowing with dying neurons, dissonant tangles and the persistent plaques solely responsible for the glowing funhouse now raging in his head.
I wish I could turn it all off for him as easily as I can “pause” my Ipod Nano.
But I can’t.
I still can’t believe this is God’s plan nor do I believe in the people that say to me, “It’s all in His plan.”
That’s the ultimate in bullshit.
My dad continues to stand all alone in the pouring rain as I continue my futile search for a decent umbrella that doesn’t exist.
Maybe someday the sun will shine.