Be Present
I started this on July 4, just before leaving for our trip. I look back
over the past couple years and realize how much my children have changed in
what is really such a short span of time. And then I look back over the past
couple years, the past couple of months and see what this disease has done to
my Dad in such a short span of time…
July 4
If ever there is a doubt that people with dementia can still hear,
feel, listen, etc… you can trust me I’ve doubted. And yet I know in my heart
that it’s just not true. This evil disease has finally taken the words from my
Dad. He’s trying so hard to speak to me and the look on his face – sometimes
seeming desperate – is now by far the most heartbreaking thing on this journey.
My Dad, the author, technical writer, sermon-giver has lost the words. And some
days its makes me feel like he’s gone. I just find myself grappling with how to
relate to him.
But it’s presence my friends. If ever there were something Dad is helping
me re-learn (or maybe finally realize, accept, and believe) about myself it
would be presence. I’m really good at it… When I don’t let the rest of the
world swallow me up and distract me – which is what I most often do. And in
this day and age, in my life with young kids, in my world of trying to figure
out what’s next, this is definitely something I’ve needed to learn.
And Dad is still present, maybe more than ever. He’s teaching me that I
don’t have to say anything at all. He’s teaching me that simply holding a hand
is all it takes. He’s teaching me that instead of having my mind wander and
worry and wonder I just need to simply quiet my soul and be in the moment.
Because for me, those moments are slipping away faster and faster and I’m just
trying to hold on for dear life to what I have in this moment now. And I know
my Dad is too because yesterday I took his hand and he would not let go. And as
much as he literally was cutting off the circulation in my hand, I couldn’t let
go either. He held on so tightly I couldn’t let go even as he tried to scoot
his wheelchair by the window. And so I ended up standing behind him, silently
crying and in that moment he squeezed my hand so tightly I finally tried to let
go and he wouldn’t let me. He took my hand, pulled it right next to his heart.
I bent over, whispered in his ear “I hope you know how much I love you” and in
one of the now rare coherent two words together he simply said “I know”. And
that’s when I knew…
For as much as it has felt like Dad has left, for as much as it feels like God has left, I’ve never felt more present in my life and I knew Dad and
God were present too. For as angry as I am at God, how can I think anything
else but the truth I know in my heart? That this was a gift from Dad and it was
a gift from God.
August 17
I look back over the short span of a little over a month and I cannot
believe what this disease has done to my Dad in an even shorter span of time. This
disease has not only taken his words, it is taking away his body’s ability to
live. He is resting a lot now – as he deserves to be doing. Last time I
visited, he was sleeping and I’m not going to lie when I first walked to his
doorway it caught my breath to see him lying there so still.
But again, if ever there’s a doubt that someone in this stage of their
life senses your presence don’t believe that doubt. He stirred as I stood in the
doorway and so I went to him. And all I could do is tell him to rest and that I
love him and pray for him to be at peace.
Today, just be that person for someone. To stand with them and tell
them they are loved and to pray for peace in their mind and heart. They may just
silently and slowly nod their head and that’s all that you and they need. Quite
frankly, it’s what this world needs.
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