Laughter and Forgetting

Dad

My Dad died last Sunday.

It was time. He was ready to go. He won't suffer any longer. He wouldn't have wanted to live in that condition. He had a good life.

Nonetheless, my Dad died peacefully on Sunday, June 24, 2006.

He'd been on hospice since June 12. He'd only eaten ice cream since about June 15. He lived on ice cream for about 8 days until he stopped eating altogether in the middle of last week. It's very fitting that ice cream was the last real food to pass his lips as it was always his favorite.

I have many memories about my Dad and ice cream. Like when he took me to SuperSonics basketball games at the Seattle Coliseum. Afterwards he would take me to the Baskin and Robbins down on Elliott. He always ordered Orange Sherbert because he thought it was my favorite. While I liked Orange Sherbert well enough, there were actually other flavors I might have ordered, but it seemed to make him so happy to know what to order for me that I never asked for anything else.

I also remember going on several long vacations to Nantucket with my Dad. We would stay at the old family "cottage" (an old, rambling, six bedroom, 2 bath house that is only called a cottage because it was uninsulated. Those that know Nantucket know all about that.) It would be so much hotter on the east coast than it was at home, even on Nantucket. And in the evenings when it was just starting to cool down my dad and I would walk the half mile or so to the center of 'Sconset and get homemade peach ice cream from the little store there. I think we did that almost every day, of every vacation. Sometimes with my brother, but often just the two of us.

We had hundreds of hot fudge sundaes togther, which I thought about often those last weeks as I would feed him his breakfast, lunch or dinner of vanilla ice cream.

There is so much to say about my father that I don't know where to begin. He was an Irish storyteller, with loads of Irish Catholic guilt go with it. He drank too much and could be irritable, I think because he spent much too much of his life hung over. He was self-deprecating, and loved to laugh. And he loved to tell rambling jokes, that we would stretch out over five minutes. You were cracking up at the complicated details long before he got to the punchline, which was often anticlimactic.

Dad was a softy. He would sometimes cry at movies, but usually not sad movies, but movies that had happy endings. He was intensely compassionate, even empathic. And my Dad was one of the most fair and honest people that you could ever meet. If a restaurant bill was missing an entree my Dad would never have imagined not alerting the waitress. It never would have even occurred to him. And to this day whenever I am caught in those moral dilemmas, I feel my father's presence. It's not any one thing that he would say, but I just think "What would Dad do?" And then I think "damn it" and have to pay up.

When he got mad it was hard to take him seriously. He would hunch up his shoulders, cross his arms and stamp around a little. Maybe he would slam a door. It was scary because he didn't get mad like that very often, but it was kind of funny at the same time, much like when my son throws a temper tantrum.

Dad always loved to pull my leg. I remember the time he had loaner car that was a little lighter than our regular car and he had me convinced that the color had come off in the car wash. He had me convinced at one point that Adolf Hitler and I shared the same birthday. We don't.

My Dad loved to follow politics and became a democrat in his twenties despite his parents deep disgust of the Roosevelts. For a man that had no enemies, and in turn rarely had strong feelings of dislike for anyone, he saved his anger for the likes of Richard Nixon and George W. He also hated Barry Goldwater, and interestingly, Howard Cosell. My republican grandmother (his mother -in-law) taught us this little ditty: "Nixon, Nixon he's our man, he'll put Humphrey in the garbage can." My father was mortified, and became even more so when it became true. I remember watching that election with him. I was four years old, and it was the first presidential election I remember. I recall staying up late, bouncing on my Dad's knee, waiting to find out who would win the race. Finally, finally, I asked my Dad when the two candidates would finally run their "race." I remember the laughter, and that feeling that we have as children, when we don't understand why all the grown-ups are laughing at us.

But the most important thing about my father was that I always felt safe in his love. When my mother was off her rocker; imagining that the CIA was spying on us, and the FBI was poisoning our food, my father was a beacon. When he was away I couldn't wait to see him again, so that I could feel safe again. When my Dad finally left my mother after six years of battling mental illness, I remember grabbing onto my father's leg and not letting go. I whined and yowled for him not to leave us, not understanding that the ultimate outcome of divorce would be a great relief to me. I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been for my father.

Throughout his life I could always feel his pride and delight just to be with me. And he was so happy know my son. And it was never about his ego. I was not an extension of him; he always seemed to be amazed at the things I could do despite him. Many, many times he expressed his gratefulness that he and my mother had not been able to get pregnant, and how much joy I had brought him. And for me, I know how lucky I am to have had him. It's easy to say that I cannot imagine having any other father, because, of course, he is the only father I have ever known. But when I hear my friends talk about the complicatad relationships they have with their fathers, I know I struck the jackpot. Having met my birth father (a nice enough guy, really) and hearing about my birth sister's desultory relationship with him, I often think about how I dodged a bullet there.

I was grateful that Dad knew me until the last day. I think he was sometimes confused when I would come into the room, but I would say "Hi, Dad." And he would perk up and get out some semblance of my name. At the end, the last words he could get out of his mouth to me were "I love you." "I love you." "I love you." The last few days that he could still speak, he would just keep repeating it. And then he would purse his lips together as an indication that he wanted to give me a kiss. I would lean over the bed so his wasted lips could touch my cheek.

I love you too Dad. I will always love you, too.

The Nails in the Coffin

How many times have I used the expression "the final nail in the coffin"? And how many times have I not thought about what that literally means?

My Mother-in-law's funeral service was last week. The service was okay. The first part which was a summary of her life and generosity and kindness was very nice. That part was accompanied by some of her favorite hymns and prayers. And the last part when people spoke about their personal remembrances was lovely. But the middle part of the service was basically a sales pitch for Jesus. Just remember, only those that believe that Jesus Christ is their personal savior will have eternal life, because everyone else is going down the shitter. It's a good thing that eternal life sounds like hell to me. My mother-in-law was a traditional Christian, but she never thought that what she believed had to be believed by everyone. There are a lot of bible thumpers in the family, and the minister wouldn't let us get out of that church without his opportunity to proselytize. Whatever, it's what happens at funerals, I guess. You can't please everyone.

The day before the funeral my Father-in-law decided that he wanted a "viewing." Yet another mortuary euphemism for "this is your very last chance to see the person you love." I have never seen a dead person. I've seen a couple of dead pets, and while that sounds pretty minor, I guarantee you finding my beloved black cat "Slick" after she had been hit by a car was plenty traumatic. But I didn't really know what to expect when we all went to the funeral home at the end of the day.

A neighbor and friend who is an expert finish carpenter had built my Mother-in-law a beautiful "pine box." Everything was perfectly proportioned. She was a tiny woman, made even tinier by her illness. There were three meticulously shaped handles on each side. It was unpretentious and (strangely) homey, just like she was. I expected her to look waxy and ill, but in fact she looked much better than the last time I had seen her, a few days before her death. She did look dead, but only just. She was covered by a homemade quilt, with her hands crossed in front. It seemed a slightly awkward pose, though undoubtedly the standard one for entering the grave.

After several minutes of tears streaming silently down my face, and the not-so-silent sobs of my sister-in-law, the time came to close the casket. The carpenter friend had brought a handful beautiful copper nails and had suggested beforehand that we all take turns putting nails in the coffin. The holes had all been pre-drilled, so our shaky hands did not have to be too accurate. The feeling of pounding those nails in the coffin ranks right up there as one of the most intense moments of my life. I thought about some complicated things at the time, like how removed our culture is from processing death on such an intimate level. And I also thought about mundane things, like how loud it must be in that coffin, and how weird it is was that it didn't matter. I was never going to wake her up. And I definitely, for sure, would never see her again.

After that experience the funeral was ant-climactic anyways. It was a lovely ritual, and I feel a little different after having gone through it; a grown-up rite of passage.

February 11, 1936 - May 15, 2006

My mother-in-law passed away on Monday morning, a little before 7am. She waited until the day after Mother's day, which was so very appropriate, as she was the consummate mother and grandmother.

I feel as if I have lost the mommy that could hug me and tell me that everything was all right in my darkest hours. Her heart hurt when mine was hurting. She treated me like a daughter in every possible way. I could tell her things that I could not tell other people, and I know that she sometimes talked to me about things she could not share with her family. She often praised me as a person, as a wife, and as a mother. Her loving support has bound my husband and me together in a way I could not have imagined thirteen years ago, when I first met her.

I feel lucky to have had her in my life. She will always be beloved by me, and by many, many others.

Irritation. It sounds so much like what it is. Prickly and unsmooth.

When you're dealing with cancer and all that it brings, it seems reasonable to be irritable. Tensions are high, people are thrown together for unnaturally extended periods. The patient feels crappy. The family is worried and sad and trying not to show it. Yet it feels so WRONG to be crabby. It feels so petty.

So I thought I'd vent a little, and maybe I'll get it off my chest and then I won't be so pissy anymore.

My husband took his parents to Colorado for that high-tech treatment last week, and that was really hard. Much harder than anything I did at home. He made the reservations, did all the driving, scoped out the restaurants and found good food. He made sure his Dad had enough beer every evening. Basically, he was the tour guide for the Deluxe Cancer Care Package Tour.

By the time he got home he was understandably burnt out. And a little irritable.

It is not any exaggeration to say that my husband's parents grew up dirt poor during the depression and war years. They have some really sad but gory "when I was a kid" stories. Like going out to the countryside to dig up coal for heat. Or sharing half a can of Tuna between four kids for dinner. Or starting to work at twelve to help support the family. Due to their personal histories, they are incapable of throwing anything away. In their home refrigerator you find lots of rotten vegetables, because when they were near rotting they decided they might still be good. You also find things like multiple bowls topped with saran wrap that might have about two table spoons of yogurt or apple sauce, because dammit, you might want that yogurt tomorrow morning. You can find one slice of tomato, a sixteenth of a pepper, and a leaf of lettuce all mushed together in one plastic baggy.

It's not so much that they save everything. It's that their refrigerator and their counters are so filled with crap that you can't find anything and there is no counter space left to work on.

So when my in-laws came back from Colorado, they brought the depression food plan to our house for a few days. Much to my husband's dismay, his parents packed every single item that had been in their hotel room's mini-fridge. Including, but not limited to, the following: Soon to be totally rotted bananas, a half eaten turkey sandwich with horseradish on it that was loosely wrapped in plastic, (You can imagine how that smelled and how easily it could have and did spread onto other luggage items.) mini-cans of orange juice copped from the hotel's continental breakfast, packages of saltines, and, of course, a six-pack of beer - something that is always easily transportable.

Guess where all that shit ended up. Yep, in OUR fridge. The beer alone takes up a significant percentage of available space.

In no time there was so much shit on the counter that we had about 20 square inches left to cook anything. We have an old kitchen already, we NEED the counter space. I started to feel that the world was closing in on me. And it doesn't help that my husband really, really needed a break and was not getting it. It makes for an irritable husband and wife team. Not good.

Here's another thing. My mother-in-law is only one cancer patient, but she's a cancer patient with an entourage. Taking care of her is the easy part. It's my father-in-law, who, although I really love him, talks at twice the necessary volume at all times, and who never, ever cooks anything more sophisticated than toast. My brother-in-law, whom I also love and about whom I have very little negative to say, always goes where my mother-in-law goes since she's been really ill. This means that he sleeps in my son's room while his mom and dad are in the guestroom, and my son sleeps upstairs. However, my son's clothes and toys are still in his room, so I am constantly sneaking in there for a pair of clean socks or his warm winter jacket. Last week my sister-in-law (his wife) flew in from Japan, so we had yet another body in the house. Although, I will say that she is the most self-sufficient of the bunch, and is a fantastic cook. It's just a lot of people in the house, when were used to our compact family of three. It seems like we're running the dishwasher all the time. And, of course, emptying it all the time as well. My husband's sister periodically visits as well, usually bringing one of her two children.

Along with the family entourage, there are the daily, and nightly, calls from my mother-in-law's "projects." (This is the word that the rest of the family uses when referring to these women.) My mother- in-law has always been a magnet for those people, particularly elderly women, that are alone in the world. She seems to have a built-in sensor for those that are looking for a little human kindness and compassion. She takes these people to their doctors appointments, visits them, and most importantly, just listens. Oftentimes, you used to hear her on the phone, murmuring soothing and empathetic phrases to her little old ladies. "You poor thing." She would say, "Well, you have every right to be upset." "That darn doctor." "I'm sorry." "Well, thanks for calling, you made my day." My mother-in-law is a saint. A martyr too, but definitely a saint as well.

One or two of these projects call every day. They just want to hear that she will be cured. They want to know that the treatment "worked." I don't want to be the one to say that the doctors were pretty definitive about the fact that this is a palliative treatment. That this will not get rid of the cancer, but, we hope, shrink the size of the tumor so that she can eat solids again, so that she can speak without sounding like she has a frog, excuse me, a tumor, in her throat. So every night, I (or my husband) say the same thing. "We won't know for some time the effects of the treatment." "Well she's really tired and feels pretty crummy. She has a sore throat, so wait a day or two to call her." I know I can't wait to get off the phone every time, but I try to be patient and not sound like it. I don't think I am always successful, but I figure it's the least I can do for my mother-in-law.

I guess that's it for now. Writing a bitchy blog is probably better than taking it out on one's family.

The entourage went home to my in-law's house for few days, but the doctors would really like my mother-in-law to be closer to a hospital and medical facilities, so that the doctors can keep in eye on how the tumor is sluffing off. It is possible it could sluff into her throat and choke her. That would be very bad.

Okay. It's time to get recharged for the next round.

cancer

My mother-in-law has quite the cancer record. Twelve years ago she was diagnosed with agressive naso-pharyngeal carcinoma. She did heavy duty chemo and radiation and went into remission. In the U.S., 3600 people a year get nasopharyngeal cancer, and it comprises one percent of head and neck cancers.

A year ago she had gallbladder cancer. Only 1000 Americans get this kind of cancer every year. It was totally unrelated to her previous bout of cancer. She appears to have beaten that cancer as well.

Now she has another tumor in her sinuses (naso-pharyngeal again). But this time it is a a sarcoma, almost certainly caused by the radiation that she received a dozen years ago. only 5% of cancer patients will actually have a recurrence of cancer due to their radiation treatments.

From the Cancer Care Alliance:

"Sarcomas are rare (only about 1 percent of all cancer cases annually), and they can be difficult to diagnose. The best place to go for diagnosis and treatment of these rare cancers is an academic medical center where our doctors provide the most up-to-date treatments to hundreds of people with sarcoma every year.

'We see people who are diagnostic challenges,' says Dr. Conrad, director of SCCA's Sarcoma Service."

That's my mother-in-law, the chronic diagnostic challenge.

All this just validates my opinion that statistics are strictly for doctors and insurance companies. Despite odds that seem overwhelming for or against one individual, when it happens to you, it's 100%. The numbers are just averages, and mean nothing, absolutely nothing, to the individual.

Unfortunately for my mother-in-law, this sarcoma has about a 99.9% of killing her. It is an incredibly fast growing cancer that has completely blocked her nasal passages and is spreading out it's killer tentacles with the abandon of a noxious weed. It's took a month to nail down a diagnoses and half the doctors have said, in so many words, "go home and make yourself comfortable, because it won't be long now."

A couple of other doctors have been more proactive, and pushed for treatment. Chemo is usually ineffective against sarcomas, so the more common treatment is radiation and surgery. My mother-in-law's tumor is inoperable due to it's proximity to the brain, and she cannot receive radiation because she already received her maximum radiation with her previous head and neck cancer. However, there is a brand new treatment, called a Cyber Knife (which, interestingly is radio-wave based), that is so precise it would not touch her surrounding tissue, only the tumor. Her radiologist here is pushing for using it, but the only operable machine is in Colorado, and the doctors there would need to agree to do it. On Friday, the Colorado doctor called and said he had concerns about doing the treatment. Again, in so many words, he expressed that he felt that the treatment would not be helpful. It would not do any good. It is her only option.

While we knew the treatment would probably not cure her, we thought it might give us more time. More time with her. and also more time to explore other options, and work with naturopathic doctors that might help slow the cancer. While I understand the position of the doctor in Colorado, he doesn't realize he is taking away all hope. And lack of hope will kill her that much faster.

As it is, my mother-in-law has recently turned to morphine for her pain. This from a woman who never has more than a half a glass of champagne, and who can't take codeine because it makes her nauseated. This woman is a martyr, if she is taking morphine she is in excruciating, take your breath away pain. She can hardly swallow, and breathing is an effort. She is in misery.

When my husband saw the most recent MRI, he described it as a "tumor the size of Texas" growing in her head.

So now, intermixed with discussions about doctors, and treatments and trying to get in to yet someone else, we are having talks about death. Immediate, in your face talks about what will happen next. What will happen to my father-in-law, who, although he is only 69 and in great health, cannot make a long distance phone call, because his wife does it for him. He doesn't pay the bills, or make anything more sophisticated than coffee. He has led a coddled life. We need a Do Not Resuscitate Directive. We need to buy a burial plot. You would think some of this would have been done before. But my in-laws like to live in denial, and frankly, up to now, it has worked for them.

Do you take your six your old to a funeral? We have determined yes, but explain the situation thoroughly before you go. How do you keep the memory of the favorite grandparent alive? Do we have the right recipe for her world renowned pie? How will we deal with the loss of a mother's unconditional love? How do we keep her close?

My mother-in-law takes care of people. That is her whole life; repressing her own needs for those of others. She cannot bear to stop taking care of people. My husband and I have both let her know that we will take care of the people she leaves behind. We will. And perhaps in that way we will get through this.

Family Circus

CHAPTER ONE, CHRISTMAS EVE

The characters:

The father: Sweet but confused 77 year old man, descending into the hell of Alzheimers

The stepmother: She used to be irritating, but now that she is the only other sane one in the family, she's like an island of peace among the madness.

The son: Evidently he lives on another planet. I wish I knew which one. I would describe his personality as mentally slow, with hints of autism and just plain cluelessness thrown.

The daughter: That would be me. I think you know me already.

The daughter's husband: All I can say is I thank my lucky stars for him, because without him I might just might lose my mind.

The grandson: Ditto what I said about the husband.

We arrive at my parents house. The evening opens with my father expressing his delighted surprise that we are there. On Christmas Eve. Yes, shocking that we are there, since we are there every single Christmas Eve. He repeats this comment no less than 22 times during the four hours we are at the house. "What a pleasant surprise it is to have you all here."

Before dinner we listen to Christmas carols. We put on the Elizabeth Schwarzkopf Christmas album. Ms. Schwarzkopf is my Dad's all-time favorite soprano. Although this woman has been dead for God knows how long, she lives on at our home every Christmas. I've heard this woman sing Silent Night at least 200 times. Dad can't remember who Elizabeth Schwarzkopf is anymore, although he comments at three minute intervals throughout the entire album that this singer "Sure has a lovely voice!" "Yes Dad, she certainly does," I say.

My husband mentions that Elizabeth Schwarzkopf was Hitler's favorite soprano as well. A fact that my Dad has mentioned every Christmas for the last thirty years. My husband's comment spurred this conversation.

Dad: Now, he's not alive any more, is he?

Husband: Uhh, no, no he's not, and that's a good thing.

Dad: Oh...was he a dirty player?

Husband: What? (Thinking fast)

Dad: Was he a dirty player?

Husband: Oh yes, I would definitely say he was a very dirty player.

Dad: Oh.

Later, my oblivious brother tries to engage my Dad with questions like "Gee Dad, do you still make that Caesar salad dressing with raw egg?" Of course my Dad responds with the blankest of blank looks. HELLO! This man can't remember what he said two minutes ago. Do you think he even remembers that he EVER made Caesar salad? The answer is no, an absolute and resounding NO, you moron. (Okay, I realize he's not a moron, he's just mentally slow, but I forget sometimes.)

Later still, while opening presents, I note that my brother has given my Dad a book to read. And it's not just any book, it's a book about the nautical tactics of pirates. My Dad used to be a sailor, but that feels like a million years ago. That book should get some good use...as a doorstop.

At the dinner table my stepmother places my Dad at the far end of the table, away from where their two yappy dogs usually sit, so that Dad can't give them food from the dinner table. For the most part my stepmother accepts the gravity of my Father's situation, but every once in a while she tries to pretend that life is still normal. She desperately wants to think if she tells my Dad not to feed the dogs at the table, he will actually remember not do it. Alas, she is always disappointed. Midway through dinner, as my Dad is shuffling food down to the dogs, my stepmother snaps. "Denny!! WE DO NOT FEED THE DOGS AT THE TABLE!!" My Dad looks up, shocked, and snarls back "WHAT?!" As his wife gathers the dogs and pulls them back to their "stay" spot, my Dad hunches his shoulders up and gives her the finger. Good times.

At the end of the evening my Dad proclaims he is going to bed, and gives me a hug and kiss good night. He goes into the kitchen and says good night to his wife. Then he comes back into the living room and gives me a hug and a kiss goodnight and goes upstairs. Five minutes later he comes back downstairs to give me a hug and a kiss goodnight. We left before he had a fourth opportunity.

On the way home my husband commented on what a circus my family has become. Yes, circus is the right word.

Stay tuned for chapter two: Christmas weekend and the husband's side of the family. In which three biopsies fail to reveal exactly what kind of cancer is growing like Morning Glory in my mother-in-law's nasal cavities.

Are you sure you don't work in a fertility clinic?

Here we go. Almost two weeks ago, my mother in law was diagnosed with cancer again. This time it is a tumor in her sinus. We don't know if it is a recurrence of the nasopharyngeal cancer that she had twelve years ago (to the week) or simply a phenomenonally agressive lymphoma. We will find out about the pathology today. Either way it is a huge tumor in her sinus that is growing so fast that there has been a visible change in size in the last week.

The doctors have very grim looks on their faces. There's lots of talk about putting "her affairs in order." They are not giving out any hope except for a possible delay of the inevitable.

Over the course of this most recent diagnosis I spoke with a guy who works in the office next to one of my best friends. Seven years ago, a week before his son was born, he was diagnosed with stage four lymphoma. There were tumors all over his body and he was given three months to live. "Make sure your life insurance is in order," the doctors said to him. Meanwhile, he found a doctor that knew about a new drug trial. He took that new cancer drug, and fought his lymphoma into remission. Since then he has had a recurrence of lymphoma in his head and neck. He told me about a doctor that he believes saved his life from both cancers. He told me that many, many doctors will just say that there is nothing they can do, because they don't know about what's out there and it's too hard to find out.

I thought, what the heck? I might as well give it a try. So I call the illustrious doctor's office. I know scheduling is going to be an issue, I know I am going to have to plead my case. I am prepared for that.
I leave a message for the scheduler indicating the gravity of my mother-in-law's situation, and the need for urgency.

The scheduler calls me back and says that the first appointment with the doctor is January 24.

I call the scheduler back. Her name is Maria. (Her name is not being changed, as she does not deserve any anonymity.) I actually get her on the phone and I say, "I received your message, but perhaps I did not express myself very well. My mother-in-law could be DEAD in five weeks."

Maria says "mm-hmm, well does she want to make an appointment?"

Three beats go by. Very slowly I replied, "Did you hear what I just. said?" "Well, yes," says Maria. "Well, her primary care doctor can call the doctor directly, because I cannot schedule her earlier without that."

"Well okay," I thought. Why didn't she just say that in the first place, for crying out loud. If we need to get the doctor to call, we'll get the doctor to call. But then Maria adds, for good measure, "Because her primary care physician is the ONLY one that can determine whether she needs to seen right away."

She says this as though I may be lying about my mother-in-law's desperate straits as a ploy to get past her, the all-powerful gate keeper. It was bad enough in fertility clinics, but this is life or death stuff. Come on.

Maria is the scheduler for this doctor only. He has his own special scheduler. He probably thought is was a good idea to get someone special, since he's an ONCOLOGIST and all of his patients are dealing with a potentially lethal disease. I can only hope there is a hell for Maria, perhaps where she herself is continually diagnosed with new cancers, but can never get in to see the oncologist.

When I started this post a couple of days ago, I thought we would have the pathology report by now, but the first report was inconclusive, and despite the rush on the second biopsy we still don't know exactly what kind of cancer she has. Aaargh.

This is going to be really, really hard, and not just because of all the obvious emotional earthquakes that are occurring daily, but because I'll need to resist the temptation to commit homicide on some gate-keeping, self-mportant, burned out, clueless, health "care" worker.

dementia sucks

I spent Sunday with my father. Only he's not really my father any more. He's a dementia patient and I am a caregiver. When I spend time with my Dad alone I refer to it as babysitting. Only he's not really a baby. Babies are much more comfortable in their own skin. There's a a glowing light behind their inquisitive eyes. There is an opaqueness and confusion in the eyes of Alzheimer's and dementia patients. There is paranoia and agitation. Human beings don't lose their minds peacefully. We go down sniping and angry and lonely.

My stepmom took my son to the children's theater on Sunday, which was both an opportunity to spend time with her grandson and a respite from my father, who still lives at home, but can't be left alone for more than an hour. I took my dad for a walk while they were away. He is 77 years old, and a very old 77 at that. He shuffled along, repeatedly asking where his wife had gone. I repeatedly explained that she had taken my son to the children's theater. I am used to this now. I wonder how my stepmother bears it. It's just something you do bear, I guess. Many of us have borne things that we would have said we could not, it someone had thought to ask us.

The families of people with Alzheimer's go through the same grief process as anyone dealing with loss. Denial, anger, sadness, acceptance. For the person going through the dementia, I think they are going through this process all the time, every day, because they've forgotten that they went through all these emotions just yesterday. Perhaps that's why Alzheimer's patients are so emotionally volatile.

For myself, I feel well beyond denial, and I move in and out of acceptance. This has been a slow creep over the last six or seven years that sped up precipitously when my Dad got cancer two years ago. For others who aren't as close to him, they are still trying to convince themselves that it's the medications, or recovery from the chemo. It's not.

As I mentioned, I am used to my Dad asking the same question over and over and over. I try to answer pleasantly each time with a freshness that insinuates that this is the first time I am answering this question. On Sunday, however, it seemed his lack of memory has progressed to some new lows, as he is now starting to confuse me with other people. He asked me where my dog was. I don't have a dog. And then, about the 8th time that I told him that my stepmom and Leo (my son), were at the theater, he said "Oh," and asked me if I knew Leo. I was thrown offguard, did I really just hear that? I said "what?" He said again, "Do you know Leo?" This time I said gently "Yes, I know Leo." He responded "He's the son of a friend..." and he trailed off. Of course I realize that dementia is pretty much a one way street, but you hope to move along it as slowly as possible. Sometimes you realize you've just reached the next block.

You laugh or you cry. I am somewhat humored that my father's hearty dislike of G.W. is one of the last things to go. He asked me what I thought of Bush and when I gave a negatively blunt answer, he seemed so happy and relieved. When my stepmom got home we sat at the table and gossiped about several of her nieces and nephews. My Dad quietly stomped out of the room, saying he was going to bed (at 5:30pm) because he couldn't stand "this gossip." When he was out of hearing range, I commented that he was going to forget all about it in a few minutes. Even my stepmother ruefully smiled. He came back downstairs ten minutes later.

I do hope that he dies before he can no longer recognize any family members. I worry that this will not happen. His mother lived to be 92 and his father 86. He has 3 older brothers still alive. This was his biggest fear - losing his mind, and now he is there. It is a huge drain emotionally, but even worse, as so many have learned, the financial drain can ruin families. My stepmother is 69 years old and strong, healthy and sharp. She cannot afford to have my father in care for years, she would have nothing left. For myself, I hate that the great memories of my father are being obscured by someone who is not him. I know this is a common story. I realize this is the way of life, and that does make it easier to accept.

I am sometimes struck by how much easier it is for people to give empathy in my current situation than when I was struggling with recurrent miscarriage. (Which, in fact, I still deal with.) Nobody says, "Well at least you had a father!" or "He's old though - right?" or "Maybe your Dad was meant to get Alzheimer's." Or "Maybe you can just get another father."

As hard as this is and will continue to be, it is not as difficult as recurrent miscarriage, infertility, loss of dreams or whatever you want to call it. I think it's because my father is 77, I can feel lucky to have had him this long, and to have had him in my life and my past. Past being the operative word. When your parents reach old age they (if one is lucky) have been witness to your childhood through your adulthood, your history.

Don't get me wrong, the loss of my father is very deep for me. Everyone who knows me well can attest to that. But children are about the future, and all the hopes we have for our lives. For me, this makes the loss of (elderly) parents very different from the loss of the family I had hoped to have. It's a difficult concept for a lot of people because my experience is not the common one, and that has made it a more lonely experience as well. But you all know that already.

impractical practical gift giving

It was my son's birthday last week. Six years old. That went fast. Well the first two years didn't go so fast. They were bloody hard. And then the miscarriages started, and that felt like it dragged on forever. But he does suddenly seem so big and he uses words like "terrifying" instead of scary "exhausted" instead of tired.

So we had a birthday party at the children's museum. We had a Harry Potter ice cream cake (Harry chasing a snitch across the Quidditch field.) The sorting hat sorted the kids - oddly, nobody went into Slytherin House. I really enjoy that stuff. I know a lot of parents equate children's birthday parties with sitting in a room and listening to nails on a chalkboard for an hour, but I am not one of them.

However, what I really wanted to write about was my mother-in-law, Sally.

I have the best mother-in-law ever. She loves me like her own daughter. Really. She doesn't just say it, she really does treat me like I've been in the family forever. And, after 13 years, I practically have. She is suppportive of everything I do, especially my mothering, and accepts me completely for who I am. Now that my Dad is in the fog of Alzheimers she is the closest thing I have to a parent.

She does have a few odd ticks, however. One of which is her gift giving habits. She was born during the depression, and her life was typical of that era. Her family was poor, and food was scarce. Sally's father abandoned her mother and her three younger brothers when she was just eleven. So it makes sense that she is practical about gift giving.

It was my brother-in-law who pointed out to me a few years ago that his mother almost exclusively gives gifts that can be used to put something else in. For example, gifts that I have received over the years include: a plastic clip that you attach to a belt and snap a water bottle into, a keychain with a clip that I can attach to the inside of my purse, special screens that you can put into your sink and tub drains that will catch all hair and debris - thereby preventing clogs.

In general, my husband's family doesn't really give Christmas presents to each other. A couple of years ago I suggested a gift exchange; putting family members names in a hat, choosing one name, and putting a modest dollar limit on the one present that you would be buy for that family member. Sally thought that was a great idea and she suggested a $5 limit. For crying out loud, you can't buy a paperback book for that amount. You can't buy a magazine subscription, a movie pass, or even a box of chocolates for five bucks. When I suggested the limit should perhaps be $20, the gift exchange idea seemed to just magically fade away.

So this year I had to laugh when Sally said " I thought that this year FOR A CHANGE (I've added the emphasis) she would get something PRACTICAL for my son's birthday. She outdid herself this year. She gave him a fancy brown clipboard. Remember, he just started kindergarten. Hmm. I guess he can clip his drawings to the clipboard. She also gave him a two-pocket folder with Spiderman on the cover. All in all, this was probably the most appropriate gift. At least he's into Spiderman. But a kindergartener doesn't have many handouts or homework to bring home and/or store. He doesn't even take a backpack to school yet. She also gave him a small dog calendar(maybe 6"x8".) I guess he can put all his appointments in there. He's not particularly in to dogs, but, in all fairness, he did like the pictures. I will say that he also received a Harry Potter calendar for his birthday, but he's really into Harry Potter, and the pictures are practically poster size, so it qualifies as room decor.

But it was the last gift that was my favorite. Drum roll please. A jumbo-sized lawn and leaf bag with a picture of a Jack-o-Lantern on the front. Yes, a jumbo-sized lawn and leaf bag. Yippee. I guess the idea is that when you rake your leaves and put them in these cutie bags, your yard is sort of decorated for Halloween. We don't even rake leaves at our house as we have mostly evergreens.

You will note that every item given is something that something else can be put in. Therefore, they are all very practical. Well they would be, if my son actually had homework, tracked his appointments or raked leaves. I guess we can save everything until 4th grade.

You've got to love her, she tries so hard. And in Sally's defense, she did also make my son a miniature sized berry pie, with his name across the top. Grandma's pie is his very favorite thing to eat in the whole wide world. Next year I am going to suggest that maybe just a pie would be the most practical thing of all.

Veronique/Veronika

Did you ever see that movie La Double Vie de Veronique? It's about two girls, one that lives in Paris, one that lives in Poland. They do not know each other, they are not related, but they are living identical lives. The same things happen to them. They are each living in their parallel universe, unaware of each other's presence.

The movie has a lot going on that I couldn't explain and/or have forgotten (It's been over ten years, for goodness sake.) But it suggests the idea that there may be someone else living our life, with slight variations, but in a different place in the time/space spectrum.

The movie came out in 1991 which is about the time I met my biological sister, Jessica. I always fantasized that I might have a sister, but I always assumed it would be a half sister. But Jessica has the same mother and father, genetically speaking, that I do. Jessica did not know that her parents had given up a child for adoption before they were married. To say that she was shocked to find out that she had a sister that was 20 months older than she was would be a huge understatement.

For the most part I have stayed away from discussing my biological family here. When I met them, it did have a big impact on me. However, I did not want to give any fodder to the blood is thicker than water argument. Nor did I want to give the impression that my parents were "only" my adoptive parents, rather than my real parents.

But when I met my bio mother and sister, it was quite an amazing feeling. It was particularly eerie with my sister. I really identified with the "The Double Life of Veronique." At first glance we had some of the "twins separated at birth" stories that you hear so much about. We both were big travelers and had studied abroad in college, both in Paris. We had both spent some time waiting tables in Europe. She went to Berkeley, I went to Tufts - only one school year's difference between us. There was a woman at Tufts who lived down the hall from a good friend of mine, and ended up being my sister's roommate a couple of years later when my sister was in graduate school at Berkeley. Weird. One degree of separation. We had all the same mannerisms and vocal ticks, although she had an L.A. accent. We walked the same. Complete strangers asked if we were twins more than once.

It was fun. It made me a little giddy.

But after a while, I started to realize that as much as I was like my sister, I was also very different. I began to realize that even though I identified myself as similar to my mother and sister, they were not my family. Or rather, they were like distant family, someone you might meet at a family reunion, who looked like you, but who didn't know a thing about the intimate details of your life. I realized how much my world view had been shaped by my childhood, and by personal experiences that have nothing to do with the genetics. It is confusing. Even to me it felt like they should be family, but they weren't. We just had a whole lot in common. We have similar temperaments, but there is a lot more to personality than temperament.

My sister was an only child (Now there's a weird statement for you) who was very close to her mom. As I mentioned in my last post, Jessica was not close to her father, who has shown himself repeatedly to be exorbitantly self-absorbed. His narcissism is the reason my bio mom left him, and why his second wife left him too. He is very personable, I met him once or twice, but everything is on his schedule, and all events circle around his life. The idea that he might cancel his plans to attend his daughter's high school play never occurred to him. He loved his daughter, not for who she was, but as a reflection of himself.

So right there you have two very different lives. One, an only child, guarded over lovingly by her mother, and me, a daddy's girl in the best possible way, with no mother to speak of. Jessica is more guarded and less social than I am, she can be petulant if things don't go her way. When she stayed at my house for my wedding, she made snotty comments about how much my husband was watching sports on TV. They didn't get on all that well. She is high maintenance, which, okay, maybe I am too, but I hide it better. I am more go along to get along, she is more my way or the high way.

Jessica and I have kind of lost track of each other the last few years. She was living in Paris a few years ago, and I visited her while I was pregnant with my son, which, as you know, was eighteen millions years ago. We were on email, then she went to Sri Lanka with her author boyfriend for a while (BEFORE the Tsunami), and she became very hard to track down. We've been playing email tag for the last 6 months but hadn't talked on the phone for over two years. It's just hard to stay in touch when you don't have a family to connect you.

So I was surprised to get a phone call from her the other day. Jessica was emotional, and overwhelmed. Her father had died. Er, our father had died. Er, her father and the person that was half responsible for my existence had died. Melanoma. He was 62 years old. He had died way back at the end of February, almost 6 months ago, and I've been walking around all this time thinking he was alive. She felt really bad for not letting me know sooner, but, she never has been a great communicator.

I felt something close to nothing. I felt bad for my sister, who now knows she won't ever work out her issues with her dad. I worried for myself and my son, that we have someone so closely related to us who died of cancer so young. I felt sadness for his mother, who is 88, and this was her only son. I felt weird that I didn't feel much. I felt some sadness for him that he never understood how rich of an experience parenthood can be.

I did find it interesting that both of our fathers contracted cancer at about the same time despite a 15 year age difference. My Dad was diagnosed in late 2003, her Dad in early 2004. My Dad survived but has been ambushed by dementia and/or Alzheimers in the last year. Her Dad, well, he's dead. It's been a very tumultuous time for Jessica, these last two years. I can relate to that.

And I'm feeling strangely like Veronique again.