Essays and Etcetera

There is the old familiar saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” The sentiment is only partly true. A picture of the Grand Canyon can convey its physical appearance far more clearly than a thousand words. But a picture tells you very little about what someone thought about the Grand Canyon. If someone brings home a postcard of the Grand Canyon that picture on the postcard does not tell you whether they were elated or fearful at the sight.

To take the thought further, a picture is not good at conveying the detail of complex ideas. A good picture of a person may hint at the complexities of the subject, but it cannot speak clearly about past sorrows, joys, or accomplishments. I could convey more detail about the life of a person I know in a thousand words than in a single picture. But a picture would give you a clearer understanding of their appearance than I could convey in a thousand words.

It is also said, “Pictures don’t lie.” But this is not true. Anyone who understands photography knows you can present false information in a picture, whether by the physical altering of the photo (very easy with today’s technology) or by simply altering the lighting, posing, or setting of a photo. Even the most simple photograph is not just conveying what is–it is conveying a certain perspective.

Words don’t replace pictures, and pictures don’t replace words. They simply tell different stories.

Why am I saying all of this? Because when I look at pictures of Grandpa from during the time I cared for him, I am always struck by these realities. I think “There is so much that photo isn’t saying. There is so much that photo isn’t showing.” But also I sometimes see a photo and think, “That photo is showing something I couldn’t convey in words.”

The memories, words, and photos I have of the time I cared for Grandpa balance each other out. They each tell a slightly different story. In my memories, and often in my writing, what comes more readily are the bad times. But then I see some photos–photos of things I lived through–and it gives me a different perspective.

I would divide the following selection into two categories. The first are sad pictures, which present an approximate chronicling of Grandpa’s decline:

In the early days he spent a lot of time sitting at the kitchen table.

Later, when he was no longer able to walk well (or at all) he would often crawl around the house until he was so exhausted he lay down and slept wherever he happened to be.

He never wanted to be alone. This photo is from two months before Grandpa died.

This last photo was taken only a few days before Grandpa died. He was no longer eating or drinking, only sleeping.

It is hard to describe my reaction to those photos. They are sad, and at the same time when I look at them I feel like they don’t do justice to what happened. The living, and feeling, can’t be distilled down to what the pictures show.

But then I see the happy pictures, which remind me of things I need to not forget.

Grandpa liked hats. He was always more than willing to wear hats. Here he is wearing my younger brother’s hat.

This picture says a lot to me.

The pictures that say the most to me are the following. They were taken on July 4th, 2009, two months before Grandpa died. It is when I am looking at these pictures above all others that my thoughts turn to what I said at the beginning of this post. The last months of Grandpa’s life were extremely difficult for me. Grandpa was slowly slipping out of my grasp, eating less and less and as a caregiver is was very hard for me to care for someone slipping away. The most immediate memories that come to me from the last months of Grandpa is one unending blur of trying to coax him, and help him, to eat.

It was emotional and psychological misery, and it is very easy for that to become the only window through which I see the last months. But these pictures show a different side. The vision is so different it is almost hard to believe when I look through the pictures. A stranger looking at those pictures wouldn’t think Grandpa was nearly incapable of speaking, or eating. They wouldn’t guess how after the party was over it was a battle with apathy and exhaustion to get Grandpa to eat a few mouthfuls. And for that reason the pictures can feel like a lie. But it isn’t that they lie–it is that they only capture a small part of the picture. A very small part, but a very important part. There were many sad times, and many hard times, but there were happy times too. Even though Grandpa was in the last weeks of his life, and just about everything had fallen apart for him, when his children and grandchildren were around he could still be happy.

Perhaps even very happy.

And in that the pictures remind me of something it is easy for me to forget, and which is good to remember.

Grandpa with a granddaughter.

Grandpa with a son.

Grandpa with another son.

Grandpa on the couch.

Grandpa interacting with his granddaughters.

Grandpa sharing a laugh.

Today, December 31st, would have been Grandpa’s 82nd birthday.

I am often reminded of two things at family gatherings. (1) I am not very good at socializing. (2) I am not very good at feasting.

As to the second point, Saturday’s party would be a good example. The main course of the party was sheet pizza. I had four slices of pizza at lunch, along with a sticky bun. That was my feast. I didn’t sit down to another meal for the rest of the day. Later I did have some cookies, and two servings of ice cream, and I munched on various snacks throughout the day. I had plenty to eat. I had no complaints–if I had eaten more some part of my digestive system would have complained. But with such eating constraints I hardly feel like I do the idea of feasting much justice. Finding oneself stuffed after the first course hardly leaves room for that languid festival meal with course following course after course.

Don’t get me wrong–I enjoy eating good food very much. It’s just that I find I rarely feel like I do justice to the abundance of feasts.

In the matter of socializing, my personality contributes to the problem. I am not very good at “social” conversation. Perhaps also called “Talking for the sake of talking.” My nature is to talk with a reason or goal–some subject or piece of information in mind. If I don’t have such I am hard pressed to talk. But also contributing to this lack of social grace is the fact that I am not employed like most people. Everyone else can talk about their jobs and the people in the world, and intelligently commiserate and understand when other people talk about their jobs, and the people in their jobs, etc.

I can’t. My employment has no drama–at least none that can be easily shared with the outside world. Talking about how you argue with yourself about your writing hardly makes for gripping conversation. Or talking about how you are trying to format your book optimally. Or how you are struggling with fears about revision . . . or anything. If I could somehow collect my thoughts about such things in a way that I could talk coherently about, as soon as I began my audience would surely go cross-eyed and pass out on the table. Such conversation has utterly no relevance to their lives.

If one person works in the manufacturing industry and another works in the service industry they can still converse to a great degree because both have job stress, coworker problems and stories, and boss annoyances. There is the great well of fellow-feeling which they can come to and (proverbially) pat each other on the back. For me my boss is myself, my coworker is myself, and all my stress (if any) is self-induced. It is awkward at best to talk about how I irritate myself, how stupid I find myself, and how stressed I am by my writing quality. It sounds neurotic at best, easily ego-centric, and frankly boring. Even I don’t want to talk about how irritated I make myself–I already spend enough time being irritated without hashing it all over again by talking about it.

As a result I often spend much time listening in on the conversations others have about their jobs. And if someone makes a valiant attempt to engage me, it can be painful. On Saturday uncle N turned to me late in the day and said, “Well, I haven’t heard a peep out of you all day. What have you been doing?”

I had to marshal myself together to keep from saying, “Nothing.” But I did little better, going to get some of my publishing work to show him instead of dutifully launching into some engaging conversation. After a few short minutes of glancing at my work the next question comes. “So . . . what is this story about?”

I tried very hard to not say, “Nothing.” But I do scarce better, saying, “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

In retrospect, it is easy for me to criticize myself. How hard would it have been to say, “Oh, it’s a really exciting book about this adventure these people went on! You’ll love it! There is all this danger and excitement!” Such a discourse says nothing at all, really, but it at least might make people interested and engaged. But I am loathe to prattle about what I have sunk so much work into. I have so many hopes, doubts, frustrations, and thoughts crammed into any book I’ve written that asking me to make some pronouncement on it leaves me feeling as if I must utter something profound. Unable to do that, I end up saying something akin to “It’s hard to explain.”

Thus conversation dies like a strangled cat.

Last week I learned that my namesake died. It was in the obituaries in the newspaper. Grandpa’s older brother Gene died on Saturday, December 5th. He was 85. Gene was Grandpa’s most beloved brother, and I was called by his name by Grandpa for the last two years of Grandpa’s life.

Gene’s health had been failing for some time, and there was at least one point in the last year where it appeared that he was about to die before Grandpa. For Grandpa’s sake I was glad Gene held on because it meant Grandpa didn’t have the sadness of Gene’s death in his life.

On the subject of Grandpa . . . it is strange what unexpected things will appear to remind you of the past.

Earlier last week Grandma was digging through her old collection of Christmas cards, thinking that since she had collected so many unused cards over the years she ought to use them. Then, there in the midst of her cards, she found a small plain white envelope addressed in the familiar tight handwriting of Grandpa, to my uncle Kevin.

The card was old, at least more than 16 years old. It had never been sent. There wasn’t even a stamp. Inside the envelope was a small simple card. On the front was the pastoral painting of a red barn in winter. Inside Grandpa had written:

Dear Kevin -

Cards never seem to have the precise words to express what a person really thinks or feels on a Holiday season such as Christmas Time. So, [below were the printed words of the card:]

Wishing you a beautiful world
Through all the seasons of the year
Happy Holidays

[then he concluded in his own writing:]

With much love and unbounded hope for the future
Mom and Pop

I was astounded to see the card. Not because I didn’t know Grandpa felt such sentiments toward his children–for I know he did–but that he actually ever wrote such a thing in a Christmas card. Grandpa didn’t share those feelings–he kept them hidden away in his heart where it only came out in little glimpses if you were paying attention. And perhaps that was why I saw the card today . . . perhaps in the end he was embarrassed by what he had expressed and put the card away so nobody saw it, until today. Which is too bad, because I know Kevin would have understood, and appreciated, the quiet sentiment behind those words.

And he still will, because Grandma is going to give him that card this Christmas. It’s a little weird getting a card from a dead man, but still fitting. Our past deeds speak about us, even from beyond the grave.

Today was my 28th Birthday. It was a day like any other day for me because I celebrated this past Saturday with my family. Even Saturday was very low key. Beyond picking out supper (roasted leg of lamb with potatoes and home made chocolate éclairs for dessert) and everyone singing the worst screeching rendition of “Happy Birthday” they could manage (a family tradition of self-flagellation) I had a regular Saturday.

My birthdays are not personally a big deal for me. I understand, and can appreciate, that birthday celebrations are an occasion (or excuse) to show affection and appreciation for loved ones. But I find nothing to celebrate in my own birthday because all I have accomplished on that particular day is to have kept breathing for another year–hardly a high bar for celebration. More personally meaningful celebrations are those which mark an accomplishment or deed which I have done. By that logic my birthday would be a celebration for my Mom, since she was the one who did all the work and accomplishment 28 years ago. And I can’t think of many (any?) occasions in my life due some celebrating. I guess reflecting on my life and partying don’t really go together, in my perspective.

To be twenty-eight is to be a decade older than eighteen. I suppose the most profound observation I will make is that a decade passes very quickly. I did little more than clear my throat, and it was gone in a flash. Clearly I should start calling myself an old man now, because I will have scarcely finished collecting my thoughts only to discover it a reality.

It is in living that one discovers the meaning of the Biblical phrase “Man is but a breath.”

But I digress.

Supper and dessert were delicious. The primary gift given to me was a new guitar (actually arrived on Friday), along with a case and some picks. That was the surprise gift of some wealthy siblings. The not so surprising gifts (which I requested) were a new alarm clock and underwear. I am so practical about gifts I can make people fall over dead with boredom.

My old guitar (inherited from my Grandpa) was showing serious signs of its age–most prominently in the significant cracks in the guitar back–so it was impossible for the new guitar to be anything but a step up. I have not had a chance to play it much yet, so the details of my opinion may be refined with time, but this is my basic reaction so far:

The thinner neck appears to make playing the frets easier. The position of my hand felt better–not so cramped or reaching. The guitar itself holds the notes and tones much better. They trail off clear and sweet now whereas with the old guitar they died more quickly (no doubt due in part to the split backing). Also, the nobs for holding the guitar strap are much better than on the old guitar. Not only are there two of them, but the heads are significantly larger, so I doubt I will have any problem with the strap coming off.

I do have one complaint but I think I have determined that it is with the strings, not the guitar itself. Last birthday I was given some Martin strings for my old guitar, and I was very happy with them. The strings on the new guitar sound (to me) noticeably different. I would call it tinny, hard, or sharp. I preferred the Martin strings, which I would describe as more mellow, rounded, and smooth.

As I was playing today I noticed that I could hear the difference between the strings more (and it bothered me more) on the wrapped strings, which only made me more sure it was a difference in string metal which I was noticing. I had a spare set of Martin strings so after practice I pulled them out to compare them with the strings on the new guitar.

The Martin phosphor bronze strings looked copper in appearance, those on the guitar looked brass in color. A quick internet search revealed that there are phosphor bronze and brass as two choices. According to eHow, “Buy a set of brass strings if you want your tone to be sharp and harsh; they are usually more brittle than bronze.” And bronze strings “provide brilliance in sound.” Yeah, that pretty well described my experience.

A different website said phosphor bronze strings maintain bright, long lasting brilliance better than brass or plain bronze strings. So call me a phosphor bronze string fan.

I will need to restring my new guitar sometime soon.

The season starts with hints and whispers. Autumn’s first glimpse comes in the glint of firey color amidst the green, the first note caught in a cool crisp breeze. But autumn, like spring, comes quickly after that first glimpse. Spring bursts forth in green, springing up, exhilarating like a rockets swift ascent. Autumn bursts asunder in a brilliant panoply of color, awesome like some blazing wreckage plunging to crash in the bleakness of winter. Spring is stitched together in its glory, Autumn unravels in the midst of its splendor. The two seasons are alike in displaying beauty, but are different in nearly every other aspect.

Everyone in these northern climates notices the reds, yellows, and oranges that deck the trees in their autumn finery. But if you stop and really look, you will see there is even more color. As the leaves begin to fall away the trees with their branches begin to show, displaying a mottling of blacks and browns which form a contrasting background to the brightness of the leaves. With the fall coolness and rains following summer the grass revives to a brilliant green, a counter-point to the fresh clear blue of the sky, so often ribboned with hurrying white clouds. It all comes together in the most diverse and entrancing display of colors.

Autumn has its bad days, that is true. There are those dim days when sullen clouds hang low in the sky, drizzling a chill rain that doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything, or going much of anywhere. Those are the days when Autumn is in a pout, and when you stand at the window, staring at the wetly dropping leaves and dolefully think about what has past, and what is soon to come. There is that part of autumn which shouts of the lessening daylight, the lengthening nights which weigh so heavily on me. As the last notes of Autumn’s symphony fades with the final falling of the leaves, one cannot escape the knowledge that the season of monochrome has been heralded, the span of silence where darkness so often reigns supreme. It is that bleak darkness of winter which makes such a poor companion for me.

Thankfully, much of autumn is not like that. The words of autumn are: Active, Clear, and Crisp. The muggy haze of summer is swept away with autumn’s invasion, and the air becomes clear and crisp. Everything seems crisp–the sky, the leaves, the water burbling through the creek. Thoughts dulled by summers languor are sharpened again, and energy lost in the sweltering heat returns with vigor.

The wind sings Autumn’s song. It sighs and whispers round, murmuring of work to be done. It rustles through the leaves, speaking a note of lightness and unconcern which lifts the heart. Then it comes with power. Oh, to experience a windy autumn day with its bustle, bluster, and gust. There is a majestic beauty in watching the spring and summer thunderstorms, and there is a majestic beauty in beholding an autumn windstorm. The wind whips round, tugging the body onward, and still onward, saying, Come, come away and when it strikes the trees they all lift their branches as one and roar like a great chorus in mighty unison, a great shout that sets the leaves free, ascending to the heavens. At the sight, and with the sound, the heart surges upward. Go! Autumn sings. Go, and soon we will be free.

Autumn is a time for traveling. It is a time to hike the trails, walk the paths, and bike the roads. It is a time to savor what is, to linger with that which is quickly passing, to feel the sun on your face, the leaves beneath your feet, and smell the special pungent aroma that is known only in autumn’s fallen leaves. There are the times to walk alone, with the silence of your thoughts, memories, and reflections beneath the golden curtain of falling leaves. And there are the times to travel together, to speak, to share, to cherish the time and people had. If there is one thing I regret most about autumn, perhaps it is the lack of this–to live where getting out once seems such an accomplishment.

Autumn is a season of goodbye. There we see a burst of red, here a flash of yellow, and yet still a shooting tower of orange. It is the fireworks show at the end of the celebration, the last hurrah at the end of a long happy day. The little birds are some of the first to go, gathering in their bustle, chittering and squawking, “Goodbye, goodbye.” The flowers go, with a silent bowing “Goodbye,” hurried out by frost’s first sharp touch. The geese take leave, winging their way high above, not a thought to tarry, honking, “Goodbye, goodbye,” as they leave those emptying trees behind. Last are the leaves, scraping softly as they tumble across the ground, the quite adieu, the final, “Goodbye, goodbye.” Yes, autumn is a season of goodbye but there is not a season better made for the parting, to say it happily and with good-cheer, to cushion the gentle sorrow of what is lost.

On Sunday I went for a walk. It was a brisk fall day, the perfect day for an Autumn walk. The clouds scuttled across the sky, the sun breaking out in bursts as I made my way up Grippen Hill. Leaves fell in herald of the coming winter, and my thoughts drifted a bit, thinking of the years that had passed. Strangely, I felt young again, something I have not felt in a long time.

____

More photos from the walk: http://silverwarethief.com/photos/albums/autumn-walk-10-11-09/

(This was originally written for the extended family. I shared it, along with some of my other writing, at the memorial we had for Grandpa.)

Grandpa is gone, and it is natural to think about what we have lost in his passing. But there is something I would like to share today, something that I think gives a needed perspective. In this time when many are feeling burdened with grief, it is good to remember what burden Grandpa felt. Grandpa was very aware of his Alzheimer’s, and that sickness was a great burden to him. He did not speak much about it, but today I will share with you some of his earliest words on the matter. It is something for you to think about, and remember.

When I first came to take care of Grandpa I wasn’t sure how much he understood why I was there, or how much he understood about his problem. Then one day shortly after I came, we went on a walk. It was sunny, and warm, a beautiful fall day. Grandpa decided he would take a walk up toward Doug’s. I guess Grandpa was feeling fairly well because we made it to the top of the hill where Grippen Road meets Glenwood before Grandpa decided to turn around.

When we turned around Grandpa seemed to collect himself and then said (without any lead-up), “I do hope and pray that this curse would be taken away.”

I said nothing at first. On other days when Grandpa had complained about his general state I commiserated about the fallen state of man and how our only hope was new bodies. At first I wasn’t certain if he was taking up that general eschatological thought in his out-of-the-blue comment. But I thought not, both because I guessed his recent blow-up at Grandma was on his mind (“Well, Pa,” she had said afterward, “You’re not very clear.” “I’m sorry I’m not clear,” he had said,) but also I felt that the way he had gathered himself before making the statement indicated he wasn’t making an off-hand comment about the condition of the world in general but something much more personal.

He said nothing more after a few steps, so I said, “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s very hard. I think . . .” But then he stopped. Finally, he said, “I don’t know what I think.”

He spoke no more on that subject and a little later when he spoke again it was on a different subject.

The short exchange might not seem to mean much if you were not there to hear the way in which he said it, but I’ve recounted it because it meant a lot to me. I think all of us who have interacted with Grandpa could see quite clearly that he was painfully aware that he couldn’t communicate clearly, and that he made a “fool” out of himself by doing stupid things. But to be aware that you can’t speak clearly at this particular moment, or that you do stupid things, is not the same thing as expressing a larger awareness—both the larger issue of causation, (that is, “I am doing these things because I am succumbing to Alzheimer’s”,) and his spiritual relationship to his problem.

Now we can say, “I hope and pray” in a very flippant manner, but that was not the way in which Grandpa spoke. He spoke quietly, but in an earnest way that told of what was deep within him. I felt it was a rare moment where he opened up to express his recognition of his affliction and his innermost earnest desire and petition regarding his state.

I wasn’t sure he would ever speak so openly about his condition again, but about a week later we had another exchange.

On this occasion Grandpa had gone to bed for the night, but I needed to finish up on some stuff I was doing, so I didn’t go to bed at the same time. I went to check in on him a little later and he was sitting up in bed. I took care of his minor problem and was starting to put him back to bed when he paused and said, “Do you believe that?”

“What,” I said.

“What he said,” Grandpa said, gesturing toward the CD player. “Do you believe it applies to this age?”

I had left the Bible on CD playing for him (he liked to listen to it when he went to bed) and the section being read was from the gospel of Mark where Jesus speaks about faith saying, “If a man has faith he can say to the mountain ‘throw yourself into the sea’ and it will be done.”

“Yes,” I said. “I believe it.”

“Well some people say there are two ages,” he said.

“It says elsewhere in scripture, Grandpa, that all scripture was written for our instruction. So I believe it, yes.”

“But some people say, ‘Well, then, why are you sick?’” Grandpa said.

I answered, “And Jesus disciples asked him ‘why was the man was born blind–because of his sin or his parents sin?’ And Jesus told them ‘Neither, but that the glory of God might be revealed in his life.’ And we can say the same for your situation, Grandpa.”

He gave a little chuckle and said something to the effect, “I don’t understand why.”

And I said, “I know. The situation of Job is a good example. He suffered a very lot and God didn’t give him an explanation. God wouldn’t explain himself to Job—Job had to accept it because God was God. We have to believe by faith that He is a loving and compassionate God.”

“Yeah. It certainly gives you something to ponder,” Grandpa said.

Then, in alluding back to the issue of faith he said, “I sure would like to be healed from this . . . or whatever comes down the pike.”

I said, “He will, Grandpa. He will heal you . . . if not by making this body well, then by taking you out of this body.”

He gave a little chuckle and said something about hitting him over the head with a board. (Earlier when he had expressed distress about waking up so much in the night I suggested he hit himself over the head with a board to go back to sleep. I suspect he was furthering the joke on this occasion by suggesting patricide by the same method.)

I am telling you these stories to give you some idea—as much as any of us can—of what Grandpa’s thoughts were. The sickness was a burden to him, in particular the Christian (or spiritual) aspects. Not only did he wish that his sickness would be taken away, but the implications of his sickness evidently weighed on his mind. If he was not healed in answer to his prayers did that mean he didn’t have enough faith? Or was this all happening to him because of some past wickedness in his life? This last thought was something he expressed more than once.

Today we face the weight of grief, knowing that we will not see Grandpa again in this earthly life. But in facing that grief, we should remember the burden that Grandpa faced. It was his earnest desire and prayer that he would be healed, and his sickness taken away. That was his heart’s cry. And God is faithful, and He has answered that prayer. Grandpa now knows what he longed for, and the burden he carried has been lifted away. His burden is gone. Though we may be sad that he has left, I saw what burden he carried these last three years, and I know what he desired.

For his sake today, I am glad.

This is a long, rambling post. It is rambling, and with such bad structure, because there is so much to say, I can’t say it all, and I don’t know quite how to say it. But maybe, somehow, you will understand what I mean.

I meant to write a post like this some time ago, long before Grandpa’s death arrived, but it is still appropriate today.

Alzheimer’s can be a sad, and even grim, sickness. Day after day is the steady grind, and day after day is the steady decline. There is plenty of opportunity for tears, and even despair. How does a person survive?

There is much that goes into coping with Alzheimer’s, but a sense of humor doesn’t hurt. One of the great things about my experience with Grandpa was the synergy between our humor. I think many people are not fully aware of Grandpa’s sense of humor because for most of his life his powerful sense of decorum often kept his humor in check. His humor was usually not the type for mature or refined company, so as an adult it was often restrained, only occasionally bursting out.

There is a good deal of overlap between Grandpa’s humor and mine, though I think I have much less of a sense of propriety or decorum. This overlap meant that as Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s grew worse, (and his sense of humor became increasingly uninhibited,) and where mature conversation was lost, we gained the ability to tease, joke, and laugh. Grandpa never, never, lost his sense of humor.

Conveying our banter, games, and jokes, is difficult. Partly because a huge amount of nuance, texture, intonation, and inside references went into the verbal teasing and this makes it difficult to relay the full humor of an exchange in a way that accurately conveys why it was funny. And partly it is difficult to convey because as a comedian I am extemporaneous, making it up as I go along, and forgetting it just about as quickly. So, if you weren’t there, you missed it, and I forgot.

At the time I didn’t really think about why I indulged in the humor. It was just something that spontaneously welled up inside me that I let bubble out. But in reflection I see the humor did several important things. First, it was a way for me to communicate with Grandpa, to express my love and affection in a way he could understand, all the way up to the end. Second, it was a way for me to take Grandpa’s mind off his troubles and misery. Introduced at the right moment, a bit of humor could effectively defuse one of Grandpa’s worried or agitated moods. Finally, the humor was simply an expression of me finding humor in life, an act which provided a bit of antidote to the hard times, and sad times.

When I came to care for Grandpa he was already significantly impaired in his speech ability, so any verbal humor was always largely a one-sided act. It was also almost exclusively absurdist humor. The key was to keep the lines short enough, and absurd enough, that Grandpa could easily grasp that it was an absurd joke. A bonus was if I could bait him into giving one word responses. Below are a couple of examples of exchanges we would have, perhaps none of them exactly verbatim for an actual conversation, but in substance accurate.

Example 1

Me: Are you poor? (Grandpa has always thought of himself as very poor, so it is an easy answer)

Grandpa: Yes.

Me: I think we should rob a bank.

Grandpa: What?

Me: Don’t you think it would be fun to rob a bank?

Grandpa: No. (He hasn’t caught on to the joke. Otherwise he would say, “Sure, lot’s of fun.”)

Me: But it’s lots of fun. You get to shoot guns and drive cars really fast, and have the police chase you with sirens. And if you’re really lucky, you get thrown in jail.

(But this time I’ve piled on enough bad and not fun things, that Grandpa gets the joke. So I add the last twist:)

Me: But don’t worry, when they catch us, and we go on trial, I’ll testify against you and get off scott free while you go to jail for twenty years.

The last line is Grandpa’s favorite, not only because it adds a little twist to the story, but also because it reflects a view he has on life: The guilty are always getting out of their due punishment by blaming someone else.

Example 2

(I sit down next to Grandpa and give him a hug)

Me: Boy, you are so strong and handsome. How did you get so strong?

Grandpa: Don’t speak such nonsense.

Me: You’re so strong, I wish I was as strong as you. I bet all the girls like you.

Grandpa: You think so, huh?

Me: Yep. I think we need to get you a girlfriend.

Grandpa: (Silence)

Me: So what we’ll do is, we’ll take you to the beach in California and have you walk up and down the beach in a tiny bathing suit and flex your big muscles for all the girls. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?

Grandpa: Don’t be stupid.

I did a lot of variations on the “Your Handsome” joke. Grandpa was never a big man (perhaps topping out at 140 lbs in his prime), never was a man for the girls, and certainly never wanted to prance around in any type of bathing suit. It was probably not possible to come up with a more absurdly stupid joke, and Grandpa rarely found it funny. But I enjoyed it immensely because it was a great way to tease Grandpa because he found such jokes about his person slightly embarrassing, highly stupid, and vaguely inappropriate.

I could go on and on. I had various other stock basic jokes which I would take off in infinite variations. There was the “When you were a little boy . . .” jokes usually centering around some supposed wickedness he had done as a child, or somehow involving how his mother had treated him (kisses, hugs, spankings, etc). When I came in the house and he asked who it was, I would tell him I was his conscience come back to haunt him for all the bad things he had done. Then there were the motorcycle jokes, the car jokes, and the traveling jokes, all things which Grandpa hated and all things I would suggest he engage in, in some elaborate and over-blown fashion.

Some of my verbal jokes didn’t necessarily involve Grandpa directly but were my own little personal riff on life which he may or may not have got (depending) but he certainly gathered my general mood. I took to loudly singing him “Georgie Porgie Puddin’ Pie” when I took him out to lunch or supper (don’t ask me why—it just seemed the thing to do) and as Grandpa took to calling me Gene (the name of his brother) I took to calling him Georgie. Part of the joke was the implicit messing with his mind and/or messing with reality—he would shout “Gene!” and I would shout “George!”—and part of it was just a subtle acknowledgment of the ludicrousness of our entire situation—calling people by names that weren’t theirs, shouting endlessly for people who weren’t present.

As time went on, I became increasingly convinced that, in some sense, Grandpa was on to that deeper subtext of the joke. The most clear example came about the middle of this summer, one evening when Grandma was quizzing Grandpa about the names of people in his family. One of the first things Grandpa lost to Alzheimer’s was the ability to recall faces and names together. So when Grandma asked Grandpa for the name of his mother he glowered at her (not wanting to admit he couldn’t remember) and then told her very distinctly, and defiantly, “Georgie.” His (rather brilliant, given the circumstance) verbal riposte left Grandma nearly hysterical with laughter. He couldn’t remember his mother’s name, but he could remember that Georgie was the “wrong” name that everybody kept using for the somebody and so he deliberately used it to make his own point.

On another occasion (perhaps a year or so ago) there was some company visiting. Grandpa was sitting and listening to the people converse, and I imagine he got to thinking it was the most inane blather he had ever heard, because in the middle of the conversation he burst out, “Pick your nose, pick your nose, pick your nose.” He was probably thinking that the conversation was about as interesting as watching someone pick their nose (and the thought just happened to come out of his mouth) but it certainly left an awkward silence. I was not present for that particular conversation, but it was relayed to me with a mixture of horror and amusement. I found it greatly amusing, and ever afterward I would burst out to Grandpa at odd intervals, “Pick your nose, pick your nose, pick your nose! Don’t forget to pick your nose!” (or some other variation on the fine benefits of nose picking). In the months afterward I doubt Grandpa remember his initial statement which had sparked my reoccurring admonition, but my admonition could often get a chuckle out of him.

I could never be entirely certain how well Grandpa was following the humor. One day, sometime during this summer, Grandpa was hollering at the top of his lungs, for nothing in particular. I was sitting next to him, trying to keep him company while I flipped through a magazine. He would shout “Hey!” with ever increasing volume, staring across the room as if something over there should answer. I would say, “Yep,” or “I’m right here,” or “I hear you,” in response. Either my responses simply weren’t registering in his mind, or he was truly trying to get the attention of the (non-existent) person on the other side of the room, because his volume kept increasing. Finally, after a bellowed “HEEEYYYY!” I drolled out, “A little louder, Grandpa. The Chinese can’t quite hear you yet.”

There was silence. Then Grandpa said, “Was that a snide comment?”

I had to laugh then.

The best times were when Grandpa got my jokes, and then tried to take them one step further. It didn’t matter if his Alzheimer’s stopped him—the effort was all that counted. On another occasion, some time ago, he was calling out randomly. He shouted, “Gene!” so I shouted “George!” So he shouted, “George!” so I shouted “Where are you?” so he shouted “Where are you?” so I decided to have a little more fun and shouted “Give me all your money!” Grandpa started to repeat me—but then caught himself—in that instant the Alzheimer’s parting for just a moment so that he realized what we were doing. “You want it all, huh?” he said, mischievously. “Well, hold out your hand, palm up, and I’ll put a little—” but then the Alzheimer’s struck again, and his words left him. I couldn’t decide if he had been attempting to say he would put something naughty in my hand or that “all his money” was a pittance, but I laughed for his attempt to best me, and Grandpa laughed too.

Perhaps we had the most fun with our physical humor. I had a running gag where when Grandpa called (for me, somebody, anybody, to do something, anything, not sure what) I would come to him and offer him a pinch, a poke, or a bite. Sometimes, I would even tell them they were on a special sale. Firstly, this would distract him from whatever imagined problem he had, and secondly, it almost always got a good reaction from him. And there was a good chance that if I give him pinches that it would devolve into a “pinching fight” where we would both try to pinch the other while chuckling with mock malevolence.

Gotcha back!

I constantly “harassed” Grandpa physically, playfully, partly because with him constantly calling me over it got boring to come and simply ask him what he wanted (especially when he couldn’t come up with any answer) so it became more fun to come over and harass him whenever he called. And it served the purpose Grandpa really wanted, which was for somebody to come and pay attention to him, and remind him that he was loved. Of course, not to be entirely outdone, Grandpa wasn’t aloof to sneaking his hand out, thumb sticking up threateningly from the cushion beside him when I began to sit down. He never quite dared let me sit on his thumb, but it was his way of saying, “I gotcha back.”

As Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s grew increasingly worse he became increasingly less aware of his surroundings and in this condition I found the great opportunity to “get” Grandpa. For someone else, I’m sure the game would have been cruel. It consisted in me coming upon Grandpa when he was completely absorbed in his task (often picking lint from the carpet) and leaping on him, snarling and biting like some ferocious lion descending on its prey. Without fail, he would jump out of his skin with a shout. I would then fall down beside him, laughing and crowing, “I got you! I got you! I got you!” And Grandpa would laugh, and say, “Yeah, you sure did. You sure got me that time!” And sometimes he would vow that one day he would get me back.

One of my most favorite times was when I snuck up on Grandpa, commando style, slithering around the couch so I could pop up and take a bite out of his knee. He jumped—oh, he really jumped! Afterward, in the midst of his laughter, he said, “Did you see me? Did you see how I jumped? It’s a good thing I didn’t have my mini-club then or I would have splattered you all over the place.”

Yes, indeed, Grandpa knew how to appreciate the fine art of getting someone.

My most favorite time, was the time he got me back. It was a bad evening for him. He spent I don’t know how long down on his hands and knees, shouting incomprehensibly. Finally exhaustion overcame him and when I came out to check on him he was sprawled on the carpet like a dead man. He looked so sad, weary, and worn out as I bent down to check on his sleeping form—and at that moment Grandpa went “Bwhahahahaha!” and came up, grabbing for me. Oh, yes, I jumped. It was completely unexpected.

“I got you! I got you!” Grandpa said, chuckling gleefully. And I was so proud of him.

I treasure all of those times. They are memories that can still make me laugh, even now, two short weeks after Grandpa is dead. I treasure them, because even in the midst of Alzheimer’s—even in spite of it—those times were times when we had fun together in our own personal, crazy, zany, way. It was the way we spoke the language of love.

This last story I will tell is not exactly a joke, but it seems a fitting conclusion. Every night when I put Grandpa to bed I would tuck him in and give him a goodnight kiss. But I got bored with that. So when I tucked him in I started giving him “hundreds” of kisses all over his cheek. I was teasing him, a little, but then one night after I did it he looked up seriously and said, “Just one kiss, now. Any more than that, and it’s a little queer.”

If you say so, Grandpa. Just one kiss.

Grandpa on the couch

We all grieve in different ways. Some people grieve loudly, others in silence. Some people take a long time to grieve, other people finish grieving in a short time. Grandma told me she was grieving long before Grandpa actually died, and I think that is true for me also. But that doesn’t mean I finished every last bit of grieving before he died.

If grieving entails the acknowledgment of loss, sometimes absence speaks louder than words. For three years Grandpa was my life. My every waking and sleeping moment practically centered around him. What he needed, what he wanted, what his problems were, and what the solutions might be, were constantly on my mind. And if my life centered around Grandpa, the center of his life was the couch.

The couch was home base. The couch was the place where Grandpa always returned. It was the center of his domain. In the household, Grandpa was the constant fixture on the couch.

Grandpa liked the couch. It was a good couch, with good comfortable cushions. It was the place he was most comfortable. From there he could peer out the window, watch TV (back in the day when it meant something to him), and in general keep tabs on what was going on in the house as much as possible. On the couch Grandpa was there for you, always waiting. Sitting on the couch, sleeping on the couch—Grandpa and the couch were meant to be together.

Studying Cinderella

So, it is no surprise that I find the emptiness of the couch the most acute reminder of Grandpa’s absence. Its silence, and emptiness, is the loudest statement of the finality of his departure. The impulse of expecting him to be there was especially strong in the first days after his death. Before, for a man failing from Alzheimer’s he could be remarkably sensitive to what was going on in the house. If a door opened or slammed, he wanted to know who it was. If someone was making noise in the kitchen, he wanted to know what was going on. If someone passed by in the corner of his vision, or went down the stairs behind him, he wanted to know what they were doing. Grandpa wanted to be informed, and he didn’t want to be forgotten. Often during certain times of the day he would shout and call for somebody (sometimes nobody in particular was named, sometimes the name would change with each shout) and often all he really wanted was somebody to come sit with him on the couch. And so, often I would come and sit with him for a short while on the couch before I went back to whatever I was doing.

It’s strange how habits become ingrained in your mind. In the first days after Grandpa’s death I so much expected him on the couch that when I entered the living room it was almost as if I saw him from the corner of my eye—my mind so much anticipating his presence—that it was only when I turned to look that my mind registered he wasn’t there. When I came in from the outside, or shut a door, words would come to the tip of my lips, ready to answer Grandpa’s shout from the couch. I would move about the house, and find in the back of my mind I was thinking about how what I was doing would reach Grandpa on the couch.

Only Memories Remain

But the couch is empty now, and nobody asks who is coming in the house, or what I am doing. The constant calling and questioning voice is gone, and the empty couch is a symbol of the hole in my life. It is a symbol for that which reaches much further in my life, because the couch is not the only place I notice his absence. For three years my life and Grandpa’s life became so intertwined it was as if we had become conjoined. He always wanted me, and I was always thinking about him. When grocery shopping, I would always have an eye out for anything I thought Grandpa might like to eat—especially some dessert. Now I go shopping and there is that brief flash of regretful remembrance when I stop at the baked goods isle and think, “Grandpa would like that,” to then in that instant know that I won’t be buying any more things for him.

Then there are the memories of the funny things, the irritating things, and the hard things. There are the memories of how he would almost always wake up early in the morning to get out of bed, of how he would be determined to leave the bedroom (usually to just end up sitting on the couch) even if he couldn’t figure out how to open the door, had to push a chair in front of him to walk, or had to crawl.

Absent

There are all the memories of the morning coffee, and the daily routine, the little ways in which we both knew how things were supposed to go, and other people didn’t, and didn’t know why I could do it so much better. There are the hard memories of the many bathroom disasters, and the bad nights, the irritating times when Grandpa would not stop calling no matter what. Then there are the good memories, the memories of how he liked my hugs, of how we would horse around, and how he would put up with my teasing.

Time is a double-edged sword. As the passage of time dullness the freshness of loss and hurt, so also time takes the freshness of what we had. Already the expectation of Grandpa on the couch is fading, already what was is slipping into the past. I knew long before Grandpa died that he would be leaving soon, and I knew when I gave him my squeezing hug that soon I wouldn’t be able any more. So I hugged him, but not too tightly, because I knew that all things in this world must come to and end. Now it has, and I try to not hold too tightly to the past, in some futile attempt to deny the reality of life. But I do see the empty couch, know what it means, and I grieve very quietly.

On September 24th, 2006–three years ago to this very day–I began caring for Grandpa in his final journey through Alzheimer’s. Shortly after that, I posted a piece on this website titled “The Next Great Adventure” (the original post can be found here). That adventure has come to an end as suddenly as it began. I could write something about how this new next great adventure is beginning. Maybe I will, later. For today I am reposting the beginning of this last adventure, for reflection.

***

Life can change suddenly. Sometimes, it does. On September 24th mine did.

My grandfather has Alzheimer’s. Grandpa P was only officially diagnosed within the past year, but certainly has been suffering with the early effects of the disease for much longer. Within the past year or so the disease has finally advanced to the point that it had a noticeable effect on his daily life, and then it reached the official diagnosis.

Once Grandpa’s condition became clear we were forced to consider what plans we should make for the future. Grandpa was becoming increasingly unable to take care of himself, and Grandma wouldn’t be able to take care of him indefinitely. They would eventually–sooner or later–need help. We talked about what we would do at that time and came to the agreement that when Grandma and Grandpa needed more help I was the one best suited to move in with them and provide the additional help they needed.

But we didn’t know how soon Grandma would need help. In a month? Two months? Six months? Or a year?

And that is where the suddenly comes into this story.

I think Grandma wanted to be able to take care of Grandpa until she was physically incapable–that is, until someone was needed to physically help Grandpa around and perform other labors that she physically couldn’t do. But sometimes we can’t do everything we would like, and by the middle of September Grandma realized she was mentally exhausted and couldn’t take care of Grandpa alone anymore.

Arlan has been living with Grandma and Grandpa P ever since he went to college. He has provided them with general assistance, but while in college–and now that he is out of college and employed–he couldn’t (and can’t) provide the full time assistance that Grandma needed. So on Sunday September 24th he came home with the message, “Grandma needs you now.”

So I packed my clothes and computer (the things I use on a daily basis) and left with Arlan that night.

Such is the beginning of the next great adventure.

It has been several weeks now and I am beginning to settle in. It will be several months, I think, before I am truly settled in, but at least by this point I have learned the basic necessities of daily life so that every moment is no longer a “new experience” where I must figure out how to deal with it. I now know how to use the electric can opener (trickier than I expected) and the dishwasher (I still think cleaning dishes by hand gets the dishes cleaner, and I would argue it is faster).

In this change my situation has been turned on its head. Before I lived with all my brothers and sisters in a large rural family. Now I’m living with two grandparents, one brother, and a cousin on the edge of a city. Before dinner required ten pounds of potatoes. Now dinner requires maybe two pounds of potatoes. Before the nearest small town store was ten minutes away, the nearest chain grocery store was twenty minutes away, and downtown thirty or so minutes away. Now the nearest chain grocery store might be three minutes away, and downtown ten minutes, or less.

Life has also changed in many more subtle ways, but the most mundane are often the ones that strike most forcefully. In the beginning I always thought the amount of food I was preparing for supper wasn’t enough. There was too little meat. There was too little potatoes. Then, much to my surprise, such a small amount was actually more than plenty. But of course. I eat one piece of chicken. Everyone else in this house eats only one piece of chicken. That means we only need five, not fifteen. I needed to keep doing the math to reassure myself that the meals were not about to come up woefully short.

There is the struggle of adjusting my thinking to the new environment, but there is also the struggle of adjusting the environment to me. Neither of these adjustments has been made completely yet. In matters of adjusting my environment, both me and the people around me must give a little. Growing up in a large family, I was accustomed to structure. Grandma and Grandpa, by contrast, were used to a much less structured environment. So I have added, and intend to add even more, structure to life at Grandma and Grandpa’s while at the same time I have accepted that there won’t be as much structure as I am accustomed to back home.

In my own personal life I am still seeking my own new balance. I am a person who normally lives on a schedule. Certain things happened certain days, and certain things at certain times in each day. This type of structure in my life keeps me focused so that I don’t feel as if I am floundering around, lost, and with no idea of where I am going or what I am trying to accomplish each day. It also kept me accountable to myself because if I had a schedule I knew when I was supposed to be doing what, and if I wasn’t doing it. I lost my old daily schedule when my life changed and I’m still trying to get my new schedule together. I have a general schedule thrown together, but it takes time to figure out exactly how much time should be spent on each task required during the day, and when it is most efficient to do each job. I’m not there yet. While I wish I were, I realize that by any reasonable measure I am doing well enough.

But what, one might ask, do I think of all this change?

I consider it a great honor to be able to help people when they are in need, and particularly in great need. So I am glad to have this opportunity to help my grandparents. But mixed with this is something else, another feeling that springs from the knowledge of why my help is needed. One could say the mortal pall hangs over all of this life, but it stands with particularly visibility in my present situation. Alzheimer’s at the end is a fatal disease and though it won’t kill Grandpa today or tomorrow there is a very real way in which I feel called to a very long death watch. It’s not something thought about in every moment of every day, but it is a reality that informs everything. It’s not something that we really talk about, but we all know–even Grandpa–that I have come because he is growing increasingly unable to take care of himself. I have come to help him, yes, but then another voice echoes in the silence that I have come to watch him slowly die, his dignity and his mind stripped from him by inches, day by day. Grandpa knows it. I know it. We all know it. It is like that monster that lives in the house with us, which nobody wants to talk about, but sometimes we do, a little.