Saying goodbye to Willy

Yesterday Hal and seven of his siblings, accompanied by spouses and several generations of offspring, gathered to say goodbye to father, grandpa, great-grandpa and friend, William C. Thomas. I usually called him Willy. The eight kids planned and presided, and a mix of family members made up the small orchestra and choir. It was definitely a home-grown memorial service.

It lasted longer than scheduled, appropriately enough, as Willy had little regard for the clock. In the time of open worship, many people stood up to talk about one of his characteristics or to share a specific memory. His granddaughter Anna, currently serving a short-term in Russia, sent an email about her last conversation with Grandpa. A little removed from reality, frequently the case in this past year, he looked out the window one afternoon and pointed to Grandma, sitting in the yard. He confided to Anna: “That woman doesn’t know it yet, but I intend to marry her.”

Anna laughed and informed him, “Grandpa, you’ve been married to her for 70 years.”

A look of incredulity passed over his face and he responded, “That can’t be possible! She doesn’t look old enough!”

As the family gathers now to eat together, reminisce, and reflect, we recall the hard times as well as the blessings. Bill/Willy/Dad/Grandpa was far from perfect. My own relationship with him seemed to be more a tug-of-war than anything else. I never felt he quite approved of me. So I pretty much kept my distance.

That all changed during the last months of his life. We put both Willy and Esther in a care home a little less than a year ago, after wrestling and agonizing and finally realizing that we were all too tired to continue caring for them in our homes (a task that fell mostly to two of Hal’s brothers). They needed continual care on a level we were not prepared to give. But the result was positive, and they both seemed to become more content under the routine of the home. Among us all, we were able to visit every day.

Over the course of these last months, a mutual sense of forgiveness and acceptance grew up between us. I can’t explain it, except as answer to prayer and the work of the Spirit of God. Willy seemed as happy to see me as I was to be with him. He didn’t want to let go of my hand. It was sweet, and the care-giving flowed both ways.

Willy lost touch with reality the last two weeks of his life, except for a 15 minute window while Hal was with him. We had just brought him back from an emergency trip to the hospital and had just placed him under hospice care. As Hal sat beside him, he saw reason and awareness in his father’s eyes. Hal explained all that was happening, told him about hospice, told him he would be going home very soon to meet Jesus. Willy thanked his son, assured him that we had made the right decision, and that he was ready. After saying that, his mind again drifted away. But what an incredible gift.

Thanks be to God. Willy’s home, free at last.

Still Grandpa

We were eating dinner with Hal’s parents not long ago. Both in their 90s, they now live with different members of the family, as the grown kids take turns caring for them. We were at Hal’s brother’s place that evening. Bill took a bite of his home-canned peaches, looked up at me and recited, “Fruit, fruit, fruit! The more you eat, the more you toot!” He then grinned and commented, “It’s been a long time since I remembered that poem.”

A long time indeed. In all my years of knowing him, I have never heard him recite anything like that. Bible verses and old hymns, yes. But he kept a strict watch on his, and his family members,’ words, not tolerating anything flippant, crude or even vaguely nasty.

It gave me a delightful glimpse into him as a normal little boy, mouthing off, probably giggling at his audacity. Unless caught, of course, by his parents.

It also gave me a more sobering glimpse into what Alzheimer’s disease is doing to his personality. While this is a relatively minor incident (absolutely no one at the table was mortified), it is but one example of the multitude of behavioral changes we are all observing, not to mention the memory loss and general confusion. Younger members of the family are asking, “Who is this strange old person?”

Alzheimer’s is a degenerative brain disease that affects memory, cognitive and reasoning ability, language and behavior. There is as yet no cure. According to a feature article that came out in Time magazine in 2010, “More than 5 million Americans currently suffer from Alzheimer's disease, a number that will grow to 13.4 million by 2050.”

In other words, what’s happening in our family is not unusual.

And yet it is entirely unique and strange and frightening because this time it’s us—our father and grandpa—that it’s happening to.

I recently read a novel that is helping me find some perspective on dealing with Alzheimer’s. Actually, Still Alice, is more than a novel because its author, Lisa Genova, is a neuroscientist with a Ph.D. from Harvard University, and the National Alzheimer’s Association has endorsed the book as accurately portraying the disease.

Genova tells the story of Alice Howland, a renowned Harvard psychology professor, who comes down with early onset Alzheimer’s while in her fifties and at the height of her professional career. The novel is from Alice’s point of view, beginning with the ordinary frustration of misplacing her glasses, building through a series of small incidents to a growing awareness that something is wrong, climaxing in the frightening diagnosis, and continuing with the chronicle of slow decline. Not only Alice’s reactions, but those of her family are portrayed in this moving story as husband and grown kids come to realize that with all the changes and even the lack of recognition, she’s still a valuable person. She’s still wife and mother. She’s still Alice. 

The story suddenly seems all too real. It helps me understand some of what may be going on with my father-in-law.

When our grown kids write to ask how their grandpa is, I feel the responsibility to tell the truth. So I detail some of the changes and challenges, try to prepare them as best I can. After all, he may not recognize them the next time they see him.

But I also remind them that he’s still grandpa.

Cute

Something strange happened to me recently in the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. It was one of those little incidents that is no big deal, really, but that goes on tickling the brain for weeks afterward. My brain has now been tickled to the point that I need to write.

Hal and I were on our way to a Miami meeting of the academic council of the program we work with. We had a two hour layover in Dallas right at lunch time. Although I try to eat healthy food, even on trips, I occasionally I get the urge for a hamburger, fries, and coke. (This is a confession.) I knew of a place in the airport that serves gourmet hamburgers and I managed to talk Hal into it.

We found a table in the crowded mall and slowly ate our burgers, thoroughly enjoying this slightly sinful luxury. We were not too aware of the people around us, but as we got up to leave the restaurant, a young couple at a nearby table stopped us, and said, “You guys are so cute! How long have you been together?”

I managed to mumble, “Oh, about 43 years,” and Hal added, “We really like each other.” “We can tell,” the woman said, and we moved on.

But I was stunned and not altogether pleased. It seemed like something one said to wrinkled people with white hair who hobble down the street holding hands. And who are, indeed, cute. I know I’m growing older, but I don’t think I’m ready for cute.

There was a time, of course, when cute mattered. I was a serious adolescent, a student, a reader of Great Literature, a poet, and so on. But in my heart of hearts I longed to be a cheer leader, go steady, and be considered cute.

Thanks be to God, I outgrew it. As an adult cute ceased to occupy a place on my list of values (except for the time when, as a young mother, I was relieved that my babies were cute). I haven’t worried about cute in years, and I certainly don’t want to now.

I guess this is really about growing older and accepting this season in life. I’m not sure how I’m doing with this. I need to admit that as soon as I got home from Miami, I bought some hair color, part of my anti-cute remedy. But this, of course, doesn’t solve anything. I think I just need to confess my dis-ease (what I’m doing here), laugh about it, and focus on what matters. So, what matters? How about—“To do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God”?

Sort of makes cute seem irrelevant.