The five years prior to his passing were mixed with funny moments, the joy of being with him, and the gut wrenching pain of vicariously experiencing his decline. Blessed and cursed with a deep empathy for others, I lived those last years with him. At times, the heart felt journey seemed like it would stretch to eternity, filled with the ambiguity of hanging on and letting go. Yet, as with all times and seasons, this day approached, May 1, 2007. And, so I watched him struggle, grasping onto a fading thread of life–followed by his last breath.

While he is gone, the memories are vivid. Living here in his house I’m reminded constantly of the love and closeness nurtured by those final years and of the special moments spent together. Even now the tears well up in my eyes and my throat tightens in a knot of grief. I wonder how I could ever imagine that this day would not stand out from all the rest.

I feel my dad’s calm, quiet confidence. He had a certainty about living that many people lack, a sureness of his place in time as it marched forward. I remember several months after I first began living with him when he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “I’m not afraid to die. I really have no fear of death.” Unflinching and a brave soldier, my dad was.  And that is also how he left this life, quietly accepting his moment with dignity, breathing one moment, and not the next. I could only hope when my time comes that I am equally courageous about meeting my Maker with such grace.

In memory of my father, I recognize he left me far more than material possessions. His legacy extends to strength of character and a sense of humor, along with a deep respect, drive, and appreciation of life. So my dearest father, know that today more than any other, my love goes with you, and that I continue to cherish our time spent together — and that I always will.

It’s a beautiful sunny Alabama day today, perfect for taking a walk through the woods and admiring the wildlife and lake. If you have read my blog, you will know as part of my father’s story, there is no acknowledgment more befitting than a walk through his woods surrounding his lake.

(An aside: When I entitled my blog “Never Goodbye” I honestly had no inkling, really just no idea how accurately the title would reflect my feelings and the character of my relationship with my dad. The words came out of nowhere at the time, and yet today they hold so true– as if I had known all along.)

Last Picture of My Dad

I don’t know how many of you believe in mental telepathy, communications from the “other side,” dreams of the future, dreams of present events occurring in other locations, and the sort of unexplainable perceptions and insights people sometimes have. There are numerous documented experiences, television shows and movies based on a sixth sense that give credibility to these types of intuitions. These intuitions have on and off touched my life, never when I try to have them, but most often coming to me when I don’t expect them.

The first experience of this kind that stuck in my memory was during summer vacation after I graduated from college. My roommate Judy had fallen in love and was engaged to be married. We had made plans to room together, but our plans were changing as her upcoming marriage took precedence. She was exuberant about her future with the man of her dreams. One night I had a shocking nightmare that she and her fiancé fought and broke off their engagement. She was heart-broken and crying. I too cried  in the dream. The next morning I couldn’t shake the heavy emotions. A little while later, Judy called to let me know about a huge argument the night before. The wedding was off, and their relationship had ended.

I remember another day when I was feeling extremely extroverted and happy. My ex-husband and I were in McDonald’s, and I was standing at the counter, thinking about my order. The person taking the order was looking down and began reading my order back to me. I smiled and acknowledged that it was correct, realizing that I had never spoken a word.

I’m sure you have had unusual perceptions too. Have you ever talked with a friend and you both voice the same idea at the same time? Or the phone rings and you instantly know who is calling before you answer?

On the 12^th of April, three days before my dad’s hospitalization, I woke up in the middle of the night and for two hours could not go back to sleep. I kept thinking of my dad and getting the idea that he would not live much longer. I had no particular reason to think this. No calls from the nursing home about a worsening condition warranted the idea. Many thoughts raced through my head and for the first time, I had the notion that Dad was at peace with the idea of passing on. He had made his decision to go. I also felt his calm and for the first time did not experience grief at the idea of his passing. As events moved forward, many confirming my thoughts of that night, I realized my dad was having  lucid moments. He was not confused and was analytically arriving at conclusions and perhaps making his peace with God. I believe he was tying up loose ends and preparing to move on, and that I was somehow on his wavelength.

My dad always approached life in a very practical manner, basing decisions on facts, setting goals, and then accomplishing them. I got the idea there were two things he really wanted to know from me. One was the cost of keeping him in the nursing home. In this mental parlay I told him it was costing $50,000 a year. He also wanted to know if I would live in his house. During my previous trip to the Alabama, I toyed with the idea of moving there. That night as I batted ideas back and forth, I felt my dad experience relief just knowing I would move to his house in Alabama. Through my thoughts and prayers I told Dad I would respect his wishes. A few days later, on April 14^th he was admitted to the hospital due to his high fever. When I later talked with one of the nurses at the nursing home, she told me Dad had said he was ready to go. When she clarified what he meant, he explained that he felt his life was finished. He was at peace with the idea. The next day he entered the hospital, for the last time.

In Loving Memory

A long struggle has ended for my dad and me. We were fortunate in many ways. Had I not been given this opportunity to be with him over the past five years, I never would have come to know my dad as well as I did. You always love your parents, but the closeness between us grew stronger than ever before. I loved him so, in a way that never would have been possible had we not spent so much time with each other. This growing period also gave me the chance to be in his house, appreciate all that he and Mom had created, and enjoy the beauty of the woods and lake.

Somehow, I never envisioned that I would move to my parents’ house. In 1979 when I established roots in California, I loved the city, the bustle of the people, all the commotion of the cars and things to do. I was young then, and city life held an excitement for me, full of possibilities and adventure. Now that I am older and through the time I spent with Dad in Alabama, I came to appreciate the peaceful country-side; the clean, fresh air; and the soothing life on the lake, close to nature.

I realized by leaving me this house, my father provided for my future in a way I was not able to appreciate until just before his passing. This house, this land, was my father’s legacy, and an expression of the love and care he took in creating a life for my mother,  himself, and me. When I mentioned to one of Dad’s neighbors that Ken and I were thinking of moving, that I was tired of all the traffic, the high cost of living and dense population of California, she laughed. She was happy and excited about the prospects of having Ken and me for neighbors. She said my parents had always wanted me to be here, but they thought I would never leave California. She told me it would have made them so happy to know I was moving.

We had services for my dad in a little funeral chapel. My cousin flew down from Ohio, stayed with us, and also went to the memorial. Our neighbor Brenda played quiet music in the background. Jim and Brenda’s pastor gave the memorial service for us. I had given the pastor parts of my blog so he could come to know who my dad was and some of his history. It was a wonderful remembrance. The pastor tailored his talk around my dad’s experiences and attributes. He spoke of the goodness regarding my dad’s stubborn character, how he took advantages of opportunities and used his steadfast nature to accomplish many things in his life that others could enjoy. He said that God gave us all opportunities in life, and it was up to us to take advantage of them.

My son Brad, daughter Ericka, and I chose pictures from my dad’s childhood and other photos throughout his life to use at the service. Brad and Ericka arranged them on two poster boards which we displayed on a stand that the funeral home provided. Framed pictures and larger photos were positioned on the table with the urn. The service was simple, and shared with family, friends, and neighbors who came to express their condolences. My dad would have liked it.

A few days later we spread my dad’s ashes on the lake. Those had been his final wishes, and he had spread my mother’s ashes on the lake years ago. In tribute to my father who walked the road looping  the lake every day, Brad, Ericka, my almost two-year old grandson Shawn, Ken, and I drove in Brad’s truck winding our way through the woods—down the road my dad had trodden so many times.

While the chapter of life with Dad has closed, the loving memories will live on, and I will treasure them for the rest of my life. I love you, Dad. I can’t thank you enough for being there when I needed you, for the wisdom and guidance you and Mom provided for me while I was growing up. You will always have a place in my heart and memories. Truly, in that sense, it is “never goodbye.”

On April 14^th, my dad ran a high fever of 104° and was hospitalized. Antibiotics quickly brought down the fever to 100°, and my dad was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection (UTI). My son Brad was not too worried and thought Dad would go home within a few days because he seemed pretty cognizant, lively, and in a chipper mood. I was able to talk to Dad on the phone, and he sounded good to me too. When I called and spoke with the nurse, I got more information and discovered Dad had not only a UTI, but had also sepsis. Even so, he recovered from both the UTI and sepsis quickly with the right antibiotics. He was very chatty, in high spirits, and eating. All appeared to be on the mend, and Brad snapped a picture of him, which you see here.

The next day when I called, Dad sounded congested. I found out he had developed aspiration pneumonia, meaning bits of food or liquids had gotten into his lungs. His throat also tightened up, and he was unable to swallow easily. The doctor ordered a barium test to gather more information about his difficulty with swallowing. However, the test made dad aspirate, and they had to discontinue it. His lungs were filling up. He was unable to eat or drink anything. Everything he ingested (and the doctor tried all kinds of approaches that included thickened liquids, pureed food, liquids, and so on) went straight to his lungs.

My dad’s living will specifically stated “no feeding tubes” should his condition be terminal and his body start to fail. He never wanted to be a vegetable with artificial devices keeping him alive, and really, who could blame him? If the end is coming, prolonging the inevitable with a feeding tube is torture for everyone.

A few years ago Dad had been diagnosed with other physical complications, including aortic stenosis, a heart condition where plaque builds up and the aorta narrows. Toward the end, the lungs fill with fluid, causing shortness of breath. The hospital did not alert us that Dad’s heart condition had worsened.

I called daily to check with the nurse on how he was improving. Dad was unable to talk on the phone at this point, and all information was coming to me second hand. The doctor said to notify out-of-state family about visiting. In so many words not spoken, the hospital let us know that my father was dying.

Our Last Visit

I flew to Alabama and drove straight to the hospital to visit my dad. Brad was there. Dad had trouble articulating, and you could hardly make out his words. But he was alert and aware of our presence, recognized us and tried to communicate through gestures and speech anyway. Unable to eat or drink, and with just an I.V. to sustain him, it was merely a matter of time  before Dad would pass on.  As a fatal condition, aortic stenosis began taking its toll. The next day the doctor decided to discontinue the I.V. Brad and I agreed it would be my dad’s wishes to do so. Upon questioning the doctor, I asked how long someone who couldn’t eat or drink anything would live without an I.V. He told me a healthy person would live seven days.

We got permission to take dad for a ride and brought him to the lake house in the afternoon. It was a beautiful sunny day in the 70’s with a nice breeze. Brad, Dad and I sat on the porch and looked at the lake. My dad’s speech had further deteriorated, and you could barely make out what he was saying. I asked him if he remembered the house and that it was his, and he said, “Oh, yea.” I told him how much I loved him, how proud I was of him and all his accomplishments—this beautiful house on the lake, his career as an optometrist, the golf tournament he won when was I was a kid as well, and things he had done. I let him know how wonderfully glad I was that he was my father. He smiled. It was hard to decipher his words, but we were able to make out that he was saying it was a beautiful lake, and he asked if there were lots of fish. He pointed to some leaves on the porch and asked if they were mine. To be sure I had understood, I asked “My leaves?” He nodded and said “Yea.” I replied, “Yes.” My answer confirmed for him that I would live here. After about an hour it sounded like he said, “Let’s go.” I asked if he wanted to leave, and he replied, “Might as well.”

Hospice Care

It was wonderful having Brad here to help me make decisions. I don’t know what I would have done without him. We brought Dad home to the house the next day as part of hospice care. My son’s wife had suggested hospice. It was what her family had done with her mother, and I instantly knew this was what my dad would want. Medicare funds hospice care for end of life and provides whatever you need, which includes a nurse who visits the home to check on the patient. A man from the hospice service came out and set up a hospital bed, an oxygen tank, a tray table, and a wheelchair. He also left me a suction pump to clear flem out of the lungs. I hoped I would not have to use that ominous looking contraption.

An ambulance drove Dad to the house a few hours later. His lungs were full and his breathing quite labored. The paramedic told me when lying flat in the ambulance, he started failing fast, unable to breathe well. So the paramedics sat him up and increased oxygen from two to four liters. The ambulance attendant feared they were going to lose Dad before ever reaching the house.

Dad kept trying to take off his oxygen tubes that looped around his ears and went into his nose. The ambulance attendant told me it was a good sign that he could now move his arms. I would let him take off the tube, wait a minute or so, and then gently put it back on. He only removed it three times, and then seemed okay with it, realizing that breathing without it was more difficult. I worried about all the flem in his lungs. His breathing sounded very gurgle-y. But I panicked at the idea of using the suction pump.

Brad came after work. He confirmed my decision to not use the suction pump, and I was relieved. Apparently the hospital staff had used a suction pump to clear out dad’s lungs, which Dad fought with all his might. Brad believed that forced use of the pump had hurt Dad’s throat. The decline between the day before and the day they brought Dad to the house was tremendous. Neighbors visited—Brenda, Jim, and Wydean. My dad was only semi-conscious and didn’t appear to recognize visitors. At least he could experience the comfort and familiarity of is own home and sense that people cared. Wydean told me it was best not to disturb him, not to speak.

After about 9:00 PM at night, I was alone with Dad. His breathing was very congested, and he seemed to be running a slight fever. I wet a wash cloth with warm water and lightly sponged his arms and forehead. In a few hours he felt cooler, and the fever seemed to have gone. I slept in a bed we had put beside his hospital bed. His breathing had cleared up slightly, and he finally closed his eyes. Around 3:00 am we both went to sleep. I woke up at dawn, unable to sleep anymore. Dad still appeared to be sleeping although his breathing was a struggle of short breaths. I did not sense dad’s presence, and his body was a little engine that just kept going, rhythmically chugging along with each fleeting breath. I brought my laptop into the bedroom and sat where I could face him.

Final Moment

A very close friend from California called the night before, gave me her support, and said she wished she could be with me when Dad passed, so I didn’t have to be alone. In the morning she called again, at 10:20 AM and asked how my dad was doing. I looked up at him, and he was asleep. His breathing sounded smoother, without the loud gurgling noise of full lungs, but his breaths were shorter and quicker, slightly faster than they had been the previous night.

I told her he was resting, and all his effort focused on breathing. However, as soon as I said this, he took his last breath. For a second, time slowed to a stop, like a freeze frame in a movie. I felt so blessed my friend was with me. The timing of her call was perfectly matched to the moment of his passing. He never woke up and went very gracefully. Everyone has their time. Allowing him to go in dignity, within the privacy of his own home fulfilled his wishes.

The nurse from hospice care was supposed to arrive at 10:30 am, but she was 45 minutes late. I truly believe Dad wanted to go when no nurses or health care professionals were around. He seemed at peace now. I knew the nurse would come and call the coroner. I called Brad’s cell phone and left a voice mail. Time moved in slow motion. I called Jim and Brenda, and they arrived just after the nurse, who began to clean up my dad. As the shock wore off, I shook with grief and tears while Brenda hugged me. May 1^st, exactly a month from his 91^st birthday, my dad passed on.

Wild Times in the Roaring 90’s

This trip I just finished to Alabama was rather mild mannered. Not much new going on with pops—the same garden variety attempts to shake locked doors open and wheel away to freedom, all to no avail. We went for a few nice drives, the best of which was when I got him a chocolate milkshake. He was content to stay in the car and suck on the straw. I parked so we could enjoy the blossoming trees and budding leaves on a sunny spring day. I reminded him that his birthday was coming soon, April 1^st. Although he spent his life as an April fool, he had no recollection of the many parties given for him where neighbors and friends played jokes and gave him gag gifts. Every year my mom would dream up a fake birthday cake, such as a pan covered with icing, a cake filled with sand and toy snakes, a talking cake, the cake that moved, etc. Dad enjoyed hearing the stories about his birthdays past.

Speaking of stories, while on my trip, I talked with a man who shared a tale few could top. His mother’s memory was failing, and so he put her into assisted living. She met a man there, and they became close friends. They started taking walks together, but would get lost because neither remembered how to get back to the assisted living residence. The staff at the residence was concerned and called the son about their walks. However, the son was not worried and figured someone would find them, and things would work out.

Next he got a call that a staff member found his mother sitting naked on her bed, in her private room. They assured him she wasn’t going out in public that way, so he figured she had the right to do as she pleased in her own room. Another call revealed that her new gentleman friend had started spending the night and was sleeping with her, in her bed. He told the staff that at 90 years old, his mother would never get pregnant, and if they enjoyed each others company to let them be.

If story were to have ended there, all would have been well. However, the son’s mother woke up one morning and wondered who that strange man was sleeping in her bed. Frightened out of her mind, she dialed 911 and reported the intruder. One incident might have been laughed off, but a routine ensued. Day after day, the gentleman his mother knew so well at night became a stranger by morning. The son searched for more a regimented lifestyle, without 911 calls and where each resident would stay alone in his or her own bed. Another assisted living chapter closed, ushering in a new life — a life of nursing home accommodations.

I’m sure many of us have interesting stories about our aging parents and the journey through Alzheimer’s or dementia. If you have a story you would like to share, please feel free to post it here on my blog.

During these past years, Dad’s memory shifted, faded and re-formed like designs of a kaleidoscope, and many different time periods came to view, often mistaken as the present. He had moments where he wanted to call his mom and dad to take him home. He had moments when he thought  he was my son Brad’s age. However, never, throughout all this time, did he mention my mom. It was as if that time frame was missing from the sequence of his life. Consequently, when I called him a few days ago and he told me he was going to have Milly (my mom) come and pick him up, I was rather surprised.

Dad and I had one of the longest phone conversations we have had in some time, nearly twenty minutes. I explained Mom passed away fifteen years ago, and he was shocked to hear the news, as if it had happened yesterday.

In 1992, Mom and Dad had gone to Las Vegas to try an alternative health clinic for her congenital heart disease and emphysema. My dad told me he was frustrated because my mom quit eating, and nutrition played a big part in the healing remedies at this clinic. Dad decided they may as well go home. So he and mom started their drive back from Las Vegas to Alabama. Mom was sleeping in the back seat, and when dad made a stop, he called her name. She never responded because she had passed away during the drive.

Dad asked me how she passed away, so I told him the story, just as he had told me. He repeated himself many times, verifying that this was Milly I was talking about and asking what had happened. At one point after repeating the story about Mom passing away, he asked me if I thought she knew. I told him yes, that I was sure she did. Then it dawned on him that Mom wasn’t going to be able to come pick him up at the nursing home. He was back to searching for a solution to the problem that had brought her to mind. I suggested that perhaps Brad could pay him a visit. He liked that idea.

A few days later when I called, the nurse warned me that Dad was in a bad mood. When I said, “Hi Dad,” he responded with “Where the hell are you? You were supposed to come and pick us up!” As I started to answer, my portable phone died. When I called back, I was told the line to the Alzheimer’s unit was busy. I could only imagine my dad on the other end of the phone, giving me a piece of his mind about not picking him up. I was in California. He was in Alabama. Needless to say, picking him up wasn’t on my schedule. But I guess sometimes, you’re the last one to know about the plans.

I call my dad daily, and I never know what the call will bring. Even though his memory consistently and exceedingly slips away from him, his imagination makes up for what his memory lacks.

Yesterday when I called, he told me he didn’t have time to talk. He was too busy. Now what could an old geezer have going on while hanging out in the Alzheimer’s unit of a nursing home? It is anyone’s guess. How could he be too busy to take a phone call? Though my curiosity was certainly peaked, I knew there was no point in trying to find out. I certainly didn’t have his attention. So I simply told him that I called to wish him a good evening and that I would call again tomorrow. He told me that would be better, and he would expect my call tomorrow.

The next day when I called, my dad said they (he and other residents) were trying to decide if they should go home. I told him that dinner would be served in about 45 minutes and so perhaps they should eat dinner and then decide what to do. He was surprised to find out about dinner and asked me to wait a minute while he told them. He set down the phone and announced with great importance, “They are going to serve dinner soon.” We both were resolute that the situation was now in hand and said goodbye. I pictured a revolting group of oldsters, set to leave in mass exodus with my dad as ringleader. Luckily, they were easily placated by the idea of dinner being served.

Busy indeed.

When I first arrived at the nursing home, Dad was busily wheeling around in his wheelchair, using his feet to move forward. He got a bit of exercise that way and certainly a substantial change in scenery. The first moment I arrived, other than greeting me with a big “Hello Lyn!” and a smile, he scarcely stopped for a visit. I had to tag along if I was going to visit because he obviously had traveling plans. So I wheeled him throughout the very large nursing home, and at every door, he would push to see if he could open it. It is a locked facility for just such reasons, and you need to punch in a security code to exit certain areas. He knew the doors wouldn’t acquiesce, but gave them a perfunctory push just the same.

Each day fell into a familiar pattern, except for the day we went to the dentist. It was quite cold in Alabama. I did not want to expose him to the harsh winter weather. However, widening Dad’s horizons beyond the sequestered Alzheimer’s Unit seemed to satisfy his wanderlust.

The last day of my visit, I saw my son Brad crouched down beside Dad’s wheelchair. He was chatting with Dad as Dad busily rattled the rail on the door, seeing if by some fluke the door would open for him.

He had never been so intent on getting out as he was this last visit. I suppose I should have foreseen this change. I know wandering is a symptom of his condition, and in our daily phone chats he had mentioned several times that he was trying to decide where to go. One day he told me he wasn’t sure if he would stay there or go home. When I asked which home he was going to, he wasn’t able to answer and returned to stating the problem over and over several times. I just acknowledged that he seemed quite busy and had some big decisions to make. He liked that and appeared to be savoring his problem.

Everyone needs a good problem to chew on once in awhile. It gives your life significance and lends importance to activities. You see, what the problem is, is quite irrelevant–just so you have one. If you add to your problem “places to go and people to see,” you have a recipe for entertainment. So my little dad was just a bundle of entertainment this trip, having moved beyond a more sedentary existence as he became a “traveling man.”

I always look forward to seeing the house on the lake, my dad and my son, Brad. My son is a wonderful guy. He swept up all the leaves; turned on the water, lights, and heat; and in general got things ready for my arrival to Alabama. A cold front sent temperatures down to 22 degrees the night I arrived, quite the shock from the 75 degree, sunny weather I left behind in L.A. Unbeknownst to my son Brad and I, the heating blower in the house had broken. The central heating in Dad’s house takes forever to warm the house because there is no duct work system. Warm air is blown into the crawl space requiring the large area underneath the house to get warm before air rises into the house. I turned on a space heater and climbed under a pile of blankets, hoping the house would be warm by morning.

However, the thermostat registered 50 degrees, which was the lowest temperature it could register, probably a more generous indication than the actual temperature. There was no heat. I had heating company representatives come out, and they quickly found and fixed the source of the heating problem.

Even with the heating problem, overall, the trip went smoothly. Plane flights came in early. Traffic was not congested. And as I drove down the freeway and the sun was setting, a tinge of pastel blue and pink framed the most beautiful rising white moon I had ever seen. The full moon was as large as a setting sun, and its pearly white glow was  stunning–other worldly.

Dad recognized me and was happy to see me, greeting me with a big smile. Mind you, I spent the prior 10 days mentioning in my daily phone calls that I was arriving for a visit. I figured with enough repetition, he might know me this time.

The planned highlight of my visit was taking dad to the dentist for teeth cleaning. I teased him about going to the dentist. In the past, he enjoyed his dental visits because one of the dental hygienists just loved my dad. Her affection was reciprocated by him calling her “his girlfriend.” She said that dad was her favorite patient, and he would kid her that he was working on cavities so he could see her more often.

Because past dental visits always added a little spice to otherwise dull times, I was not concerned about dad’s forthcoming adventure at the dentist. He liked to get out for a drive, and the actual teeth cleaning procedures had always taken a backseat to the fun he had with the dental staff.

So, I wheeled him into the dentist’s office. Our first intimation that this dental visit would be different was when his regular hygienist had been replaced. The replacement hygienist’s demeanor was very professional, and courteous; however, she wasn’t admiring my dad and joking with him. We helped him shift from the wheel chair to the dental chair. He complained about the paper towel she fastened with clips around his neck. When she wanted him to open his mouth, he refused, pulling his lips tight so she had to pry them open. You would have thought she was giving a four-year-old his first teeth cleaning. About two scrapes of the teeth was all he would tolerate, so she skipped straight into the polishing stage.

He kept pushing her hand away from his mouth and asking her, “Are you done yet?” He told me several times, “I don’t like this,” and that it was time to go home. She gave him water to rinse his mouth from a cup and tried to use the suction device to remove water. But he would have none of that and spit the water onto the floor.

When she tried to floss between his teeth to get rid of the cleaning grit, he resumed pushing her hand away, asking if she was done yet, and informing her that he was leaving now.

I started laughing. Soon the dental hygienist was laughing too. My dad had a little smirk on his face, and at last we were done with his teeth cleaning episode.

Not much of anything was accomplished as far as getting his teeth cleaned. When the gal at the front desk asked if we would re-schedule another cleaning in 6 months, I told her I did not think my dad would stand for it. My dad, who is hard of hearing and had turned deafness to his advantage, suddenly asked what we had both said. I spoke loudly repeating, “I don’t think he would stand for it.” He smiled approvingly with a slight twinkle in his eye.

There is a saying in Alabama, “Once a man, twice a boy.” This dental visit brought new meaning to the saying. We can both applaud the fact that unless he is in dire pain, my dad–and the few teeth he has left in his mouth–will escape future dental excursions.

During these past few weeks, my dad has revived the theme of going home. I ask him where home is, and sometimes it’s Akron, Ohio with his parents. Sometimes it’s Ohio in the house where I grew up, and sometimes it’s here in Alabama. However, more and more he doesn’t seem to know where home is.

As I watch him search for “home” over and over, I arrive at the same realization. I recognize the need to emotionally and spiritually let go of my father.

Dad is not wearing the self he wants to be. He looks to find that self, the one he used to feel so comfortable wearing. However–that self is no longer hanging in his closet.

His quality of life worsens daily, and he is imprisoned in a body with a crippled mind that no longer works properly. Breathing life back into him becomes unkind, for him as well as me. My holding on doesn’t help him to gracefully end what has been a full life. In many ways I believe he is telling me he is ready to pass on. When he talks about “going home,” he just wants to be himself again and come to rest in peace. After all, when you are able to be yourself, you are “home”.

It’s heartbreaking, and I want him to know that I’m always with him in spirit. The journey is his to make and he can leave, without his body, whenever he wants. Better things lie ahead for him. I respect his wishes and want him to be able to “come home”.

As I reached my decision to let go and cope with my emotions, I decided to celebrate Dad’s life and acknowledge the wonderful father I have come to know.

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When we first visited the house on the lake, my kids were young, five and six years old. The house was barely a skeleton with an erected frame, some outside walls, and a wooden floor that spanned a generous slab of granite jutting out from the ground. This bulge of rock ended in a steep drop-off of about fifteen to twenty feet. Somewhat final plans were beginning to take shape. My Mom opened a roll of blueprints that she had labored over and showed me where the screened in porch would attach to the house. An outcrop of rock that poked into the way of normal floor dimensions would uniquely emerge from the floor in the corner of the porch. Since my mom loved the rock on the property, especially rock patterned with lichen and moss, the stone floor corner suited her perfectly.

Walkway between the porch and the house

A railed walkway would extend over the drop-off from the other side of the porch and wind around to the front of the house forming a balcony which faced the lake. Cantilevered posts would solve the architectural dilemma of how to support the walkway and balcony—cantilevered posts wedged firmly into the ground and angled against the bedrock underlying the house.

Mom & Dad, the back of the house beside the carport, porch to the left and side entrance

Other plans were still open to debate. Mom developed a sentimental attachment to a particular tree and didn’t want to cut it down. She and Dad were wrestling with the idea of whether or not to build part of the house around the tree.

A sense of adventure and excitement filled us all. My ex-husband was thrilled by prospects of daily fishing on the lake. My son Brad busied himself with chasing lizards and frogs and exploring the woods. My daughter Ericka and I hung out with my mom, took pictures, and went for walks around the lake. At night, like explorers on an expedition, we camped out in sleeping bags on the wood floor of the house.

From that point forward, our yearly vacations included visits to the lake house. With each visit, the house took on more personality through finishing touches and new additions. My Mom and Dad added a window to the side of the kitchen opening into the porch. Under the window on the porch side, they built a tiled counter so Mom could slide dishes of food out the window onto the counter. They placed a picnic table on the porch, on top of the stone floor ledge in the corner. We enjoyed most of our meals outside at the picnic table and often sat gazing at the wildlife across the lake.

View through the kitchen to the porch

Some mornings, deer appeared among the trees across the lake and drank from the water’s edge. One end of the lake was inhabited by beavers that built a dam. We would often hear the busy rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker or the occasional night song of a whippoorwill. After dusk, a boisterous chorus of frogs echoed their refrain across the lake, disabusing the idea of quiet nights in the woods–but still a reprieve from loud traffic and city noises.

There was a white heron that owned a section of lake directly across from the house, and he spent his time fishing with his enormously long beak. My dad’s binoculars provided close-up views of all these creatures and magnified a certain fascination for the banks on that opposite side.

Dad rigged up a motorboat with barely enough power to pull a skier, which became Ericka’s favorite pastime. He also built a floating dock, turning part of the lake into a swimming area. We had a wonderful time swimming, splashing each other and diving off the dock.

Ericka skiing on the lake

One of my favorite additions to the house included a modernistic wrought-iron, spiral staircase that ascended to a loft and balcony overlooking the living room/dining room area. The bunk beds I slept in as a child were set up in the loft, along with shelves of my books, some old toys and trinkets, and a weathered, wooden chest that used to belong to my grandmother. A perfect hideaway for the kids, who loved sleeping in bunk beds, the loft was tucked away with a view of the rooms below.

The house was not without its practical peculiarities, all built to accommodate my parents’ particular desires. A carport was constructed with a workshop attached at the back. Extending off the workshop with steps leading underground was my dad’s tornado pit, complete with a sink, bed, extra water, and dried foods. The tornado pit was a shelter of many names, starting out as a “bomb shelter” which continued until the Cold War ended. Having outlived that era, it then became the “tornado pit.” A bit later it turned into the “Y2K shelter” and when Y2K flickered out like a dud firecracker, it became the tornado pit again.

Mom planned her cupboard spaces with certain functions in mind. The shallowest cupboard I ever saw was measured and built to house her ironing board. There was a skylight over my parent’s bathroom and a solar heating wall filled with sand up in the loft. When the tall picture windows in the living room/dining room area let too much heat escape during the winter, my mom and dad designed and built shutters made from Styrofoam. Covered with coarse linen cloth and painted beige, the shutters fit inside the tall windows and became part of the decor.

The house split into several levels. Three steps on both sides of the enormous fireplace descended into the open living room/dining room area. The vaulted ceiling angled down from above the balcony and loft to meet tall picture windows that looked out onto the lake. Sliding doors on either side of this spacious room opened up onto the outside walkway and balcony that ran in front of its large picture windows.

Living room, fireplace and partial view of the loft

Of all the house’s unusual characteristics, the fireplace stood out as one of the most spectacular. You couldn’t help but notice it when you walked in the front door. Centered in the middle of the house, between two sets of descending steps into the living room, the fireplace extended from the floor to the top of the high vaulted ceiling. It was not traditionally shaped, but had a hollowed out section between the two groupings of mortared stones. The front section contained a black wrought-iron, angular stove where you placed logs. Also unique was the pattern in which the stones were laid—horizontally not vertically. However, most amazing of all was the fact that my mom and dad hauled a myriad of rocks from their property and with their own hands built the fireplace, lifting and laying it stone by stone.

With black slate floors, counters of turquoise ceramic tiles in the kitchen, rust red-orange tiles in the guest bathroom and master bathroom, warm brown carpets, and olive green accents, the house was a striking palette of colors. Equally alluring were the decorations of Mexican pots, lamps, candelabras, and other rustic treasures Mom and Dad had collected from their travels.

Throughout the years of our visits, (when I lived with Dad and after Dad went into assisted care) the house continued to hold its charm. It remains such a reflection of my parents in their golden years that I could never bring myself to sell or rent it to pay for Dad’s living assistance. So there it lies in its nook of the woods. The house on the lake sits perched on the rock like an old friend patiently awaiting my next visit. And with each visit, we renew our friendship and re-create cherished memories—memories of family, the magic of nature, and the aesthetic story of how it came to life.