Over the past ten years, I’ve watched my dad slip away, one small, excruciating piece at a time.  At first it was little changes.  Before he started slipping away, he was always an obsessively neat and tidy person.  He would hang tools on the garage wall and ask me to outline the shapes of each tool with a marks-a-lot ( an old-school Sharpee) so that they would always be returned to the exact same spot each time. His sock drawer was immaculate; each pair rolled exactly the same, color coded from lightest to darkest.  One of the first changes I noticed in dad was that his garage wasn’t neat and tidy anymore.  Dad had always been fastidiously clean and then I noticed that sometimes he didn’t shower every day.   Dad was always a “fix-it” guy and a true handy-man, but suddenly he wasn’t fixing anything around the house.  Mom bought a new barbecue grill and he didn’t put it together for her.  I realized at some point that it wasn’t because he had lost interest, or become lazy, it was because he couldn’t anymore. 

He started falling frequently, and staying in bed all day.  He became incontinent and this very proud man didn’t seem embarrassed in the least when he would wet or soil himself. 

For the last 2 ½ years, he’s been in a nursing home- the final indignity.  He’s lost his mobility and his dementia gets worse by the day.  He is unable to communicate verbally anymore in any meaningful way.  He has a tough time bringing words to mind in order to complete a sentence. 

I grieve the loss of my dad a little at a time as there’s less and less each day of the dad I knew.  But behind the inabilities, vulnerabilities, and indignities he is going through, one thing endures.  My dad was always such a giving person.  If you needed something, he was there for you.  When my brother in law was burned in a house fire, dad flew up to northern Michigan and sat at my brother in law’s bedside, feeding him ice cream.    If you were moving, he was there to help.  When I went through my divorce, he was always coming into town to be with my kids while I went to night classes, went on business trips, tried to make a new life for myself.  He tiled a bathroom for me, built in a fourth bedroom for my son.  He was one of those people that truly enjoyed giving to others and being the hero.   He was my rock.  

And dad was a romantic.  He was the kind of man who bought my mom flowers and jewelry for special occasions, opened doors for her, and I hear he was a great dancer.  Now, he can’t dance or go out and buy her roses and diamonds, and a nursing home is about the least romantic place to spend time with your lover.  But,   every day, he orders a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the lunch room.  After his lunch, he takes the sandwich back to his room and waits for my mom to come for her visit.  When she comes to see him each day after lunch, he takes half the sandwich and gives her half.  Then together, as their lives and their 61 year love affair slip away; this beautiful couple share this bread, and jelly and peanut butter.  This is their daily eucharist, their holy communion.  It’s all he has left to give her. 

“This is my body”

And it’s beautiful.   

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