A Thousand Goodbyes

For quite a while, many Tuesday’s have been Grandpa day. Lydia had just started school so she missed out on coming with Mom to spend time with Grandpa so Grandma could work. But, Bethany came for a year and then Rachel has been doing this with Mom since the beginning.

We moved Dad into memory care the middle of February. The time had come not only for Dad, but the toll it is taking on my Mom has never stopped worrying me. That morning, before helping move Dad’s stuff I said goodbye to a family friend who left this world too soon.  And in the moment, adrenaline and denial and maybe, by God’s grace, a little bit of strength helped to push through that day. While that works, and sometimes is necessary to get through life, at some point you can’t keep pushing through.

Dementia steals memories, moments and just so many things. Today is Tuesday. Rachel knows it is Tuesday. She had a rough morning and I couldn’t figure out why. Until I sat her down and waited patiently for her to talk. And when she finally did she said she’s sad and misses her time on Tuesday’s with Grandpa.

To be honest, up until last night at about 11:30 I hadn’t yet said how sad it was to say goodbye to our friend or how sad this change has made me feel. Between epic snowstorms and missed school days and kids being sick and just life happening in the dead of a WI winter, I failed to acknowledge these endings. I’ve just been pushing through much like I’ve been doing through a lot of this journey.

And it’s so crazy how we’ve become masters at containing grief and pushing it away. Until the heart and mind and body finally just say enough. So, when it’s 11:30 and I can’t sleep and walk to the bathroom and see one star shining out the window it hits me like a ton of bricks…

Without my realizing my mode has shifted from helping Dad to saying goodbye. A really long, drawn out saying goodbye over and over again. I don’t know anyone who does like goodbyes, but man am I so not good at it and I’d rather cling to that cliché “until we meet again”. The crummy thing about dementia is that it seems so silly to say that because Dad is still here. And yet, his mind is slipping farther away. Moments with him are becoming shorter. The other day, he didn’t know who I was…

There have been other moments I’m sure where he hasn’t recognized me, but with the girls always in tow there’s still been this assurance of recognition. He thought I wasn’t supposed to be there and that I was someone checking up on him and for a few minutes, he turned the other way and tried to ignore me and talk to someone else. The other day was the first time I found myself saying “I’m your daughter, I’m Julia. My name is Julia, I’m here to visit you.

Here’s the thing. Intellectually I know this is just the natural course of this disease. There’s nothing I can change about it and I believe in my heart that in Dad’s heart and soul, he will always know who were are even if his brain can’t help him out. But that doesn’t stop the hurt and it doesn’t stop the recognition that he’s slowly slipping away and I have to say goodbye.

There have been times where I’ve said I’m just sick of being sad and I’m sick of the cycle of anger, denial, and acceptance and la-di-da… There are times where I’ve tried to convince myself that I will get to this certain “point” where the grief will be gone. 

Let me tell you, I have learned a lot about grief that I never planned on learning because well, heh life would go perfectly according to my plan and I wouldn’t have to worry about that, right? (Hope you can sense my sarcastic eye roll here.) But, there’s someone I know who did a lot of research on grief as he sat with families who lost loved ones, counseled people going through difficult times, delivered the worst kind of news to families while serving as police chaplain. I just wish he was still here in a capacity where I could talk with him about it. But, that’s just not how life works.

Although I can’t talk to him, he did leave his research and his notes and random quotes glued to index cards.

 

Truth is I’ve been saying goodbye ever since we learned Dad had dementia. Truth is, the grief will never be gone; I will never get to that “point”; I’ll never get over it or move on. I will "live although grieving". I’ll say a thousand more goodbyes as this journey twists and winds until it sadly ends.