Cleaning the Shop Part II

Leslie ran her hand along the rough, olive- green surface of the plane chassis nearest her. “I don’t even recognize this. What kind of plane is it?” she asked. I pointed to the panorama of pictures pasted on pieces of cardboard that adorned the wall above a work-table.
“It’s called a Veri-Eeze. What is known as an experimental aircraft.” I said as we studied the pictures. The photos were of glossy, petite, finished planes all with the Veri-Eeze’s unique structure of a small body, long center wing, and smaller wing bisecting the nose of the aircraft, which then ended in a propellor.
“Wait, is that you?” Leslie crowed, pointing at an older photo, bent at the edges. The picture showed a very young Big Sister and I, standing in front of one of the oddly-shaped planes. I am little enough to fit under the big main wing, and I am wearing shorts and a grubby t-shirt. Big Sister is taller, her head reaching above the wing, and she is dressed in shorts and t-shirt as well. We are both smiling at the camera, but our faces also reflect the fatigue of a great deal of walking and looking at the very planes we stand in front of.
“Yep, that’s me.” I sighed. “You’re looking at the birthplace of the experimental aircraft, and the bane of our existence; the EAA convention in Wisconsin.”

Cleaning the Shop Part I

The Shop was a visual representation of how I imagined Dad’s brain was looking these days: messy, cluttered, and stacked with junk. The overhead florescent lights flickered to life as Christian flipped the switch, illuminating most of the large space. Essentially a double garage, the shop had been devoted exclusively to my father’s pursuits for as long as I could remember. It was his haven, his refuge: where he kept dusty pictures and files of plane diagrams; where he resuscitated the Fiat convertible he bought instead of the Corvette he really wanted; and where he played the radio turned to classical FM while applying epoxy to one of the wings of the experimental aircraft he was building. Ah yes, the aircraft.
There were plane parts everywhere, mixed in with the car parts and tools and table-saws. The large, greenish fusillage of a plane called a Veri-Eeze filled part of the space with its rough, fiberglass body. There were boxes of flight instruments, and piles of the components that would have been inserted into the wings to adjust the flaps. We had glanced at the shop when I first hired Leslie, but I hadn’t covered the full story with her. The story of why the shop looked like an airport after a tornado.
Next to sailing, flying was Dad’s favorite thing. He dreamed of building and flying airplanes; as a child I had memories of being taken up by him in a small private plane owned by a group at Boeing. We would urge him to fly above the clouds so we could look down at the billowy white landscape. His membership in the flying club expired and the flights petered out as his family grew and his responsibilities increased. Unable to comprehend such a thing as a work-life balance, his love of flight went underground.

Dad's pictures

This one is dedicated to my Uncle Andy.

There were photos of him in groups with other young men. Sometimes in some classroom holding up an object that obviously had meaning to them. A few in what is obviously a dorm room, filled with beds, dressers, and desks piled up with technical equipment. Pictures of him with a small sailboat, on a lake I don’t recognize, with his little brother. He was happy in almost every one of these pictures, laughing and active and strong.

Dad had always been secretive and reticent about his past and his family, except for the basic details. It didn’t seem to be motivated by shady reasons, he just never seemed interested in telling us much, even when we asked. He always said he preferred to live in the present, that he couldn’t remember all those old stories and didn’t want to. What he didn’t realize was that, in some ways, he was denying us crucial bits of our history, details that could help us shine a light on our parents and why they were the people they were. Not only personal details about our family of origin, but also illuminating facts about events in the past and cultural history. These were stories about our family that now we would never hear, never understand, and to me, that was a great loss. Maybe as he traveled back in time in his mind, details would come out, like scraps of paper, about his life. I only had to be there to pick them up and smooth them out and read.

Cleaning the Den Part II

“Hey look, look at this! I can’t believe she kept all of this,“ I exclaimed.
Big Sister crowded in next to me, “Look, it’s the clown costume. And the hat! She saved the hat!“ It was indeed the clown costume, made by my mother when Big Sister was a toddler for Halloween, and recycled for me a few years later. There were pictures in the family photo albums of each of us, clad in the shiny silver one-piece suit, puffy red buttons running up the front, tiny, cone-shaped hat on top of our heads. And, of course, the clown makeup: painted on red nose, rosy cheeks, and white triangles around the eyes. She had saved our most favorite clothes and shoes, stuffed carelessly in the garbage bag, lost for years in the crammed closet. I could remember most of the outfits and how much I had loved them.
“It’s the shoes, my red shoes!“ I yelled, holding up the little red patent lace up shoes that were featured in many pictures of me as a child. I could remember one particular photo, Big Sister and I standing together, dressed in our stylish and garish seventies clothing, shirts tucked firmly in and pants pulled up almost around our chests. I’m smiling in the picture, no doubt because I’m wearing my snappy yet stylish red shoes with the striped red and black laces! How I adored those shoes!

Cleaning the Den Part I

My thoughts turned to Big Sister as I sat on the dirty yellow carpet, surrounded by relics of our family. What did she think about our family, about our parents? What was her reaction to the questions and revelations that this house clean was evoking? We were only two years apart in age, yet our family experiences were miles apart, as were our reactions to our father’s illness. Our relationship had already been strained by my father‘s situation, a common occurrence in families touched by illness; I imagined our reactions and recollections of events and actions taken were miles apart as well. Inevitably, where there were siblings, there were expectations and emotions; disappointments and disillusionment. We had tried to communicate throughout, with varied success. I couldn’t help but wonder what our relationship would look like at the end of this experience.

Enough floor space had finally been cleared so we could reach the closet, which was full of more stuff: boxes, bags, carpet remnants, rolls of fiberglass. Even a filing cabinet shoe-horned into the corner. Pulling out the empty cabinet and putting it in the hall, we gathered in front of the closet, trying to get a good look at the boxes and bags remaining. Digging through a huge black garbage bag, I found a surprise.

Making a decision.

The idea had occurred to me all at once, springing into my head almost fully formed. I was spending a lot of my spare time and energy helping Dad, and I was finding it hard to combine that effort with the demands and stresses of my current job. I was spending one day a week at Dad’s house paying bills, doing clerical work, and sometimes going out to lunch with him and his care-giver. What with the hour long drive there and back, and the exhaustion after being at the house, I was giving up my whole day, even though I was only there a few hours. I was pushing my limits. If I were to move back in with Dad, taking the place of the aide currently there twice a week, the benefits could be huge...
After weeks of talking it over with my friends, my therapist, and pretty much anyone else who would listen, I knew what I had to do even though I was still petrified at the thought of what I was taking on. The money was great, the chance to have more time was enticing, but it always came down to not wanting to miss anything. However, the relationship between my father and I had always been backwards. I had always been the one running after him, struggling to establish and maintain a connection. I had felt trapped in the role of caretaker. Now I was choosing the role of my own free will. If I was going to do it, I needed to be absolutely clear about what was happening. I was choosing the money, the best way Dad had of caring for me. And I yearned to see if I could make one last connection in the time he had left. If Dad had one lucid moment, I wanted to share it with him. I wanted to see everything that was happening to him. In the end, I really had no choice.

Telling Dad.

The beach bordered the path on one side, sand and beached logs alternated with reeds and mud. On the other side, trees and bracken gave way to gentle slopes of green grass filled with all sorts of birds and waterfowl, going about their business. Ducks quacked and waddled officiously across the concrete path, gossiping to each other. Where the water came close to the path, we could hear it lap gently against the rocks. Crossing bridges built over the edges of the lake and various little streams running into it, we could look over and see the little fish darting through the peat-brown water. Walls of hedge roses bloomed in the spring and summer, and the flat, bready smell of grass dried in the sun filled the nose.
I chose this walk and this path specifically when it became time to talk to Dad about our concerns for him and to tell him that he would be moving to an Assisted Living Facility. Regardless of age, assuming the mantle of parenthood over a parent is both difficult and impossible to prepare for. Conveying to a parent the imminent reality of a move to a facility presents an even worse challenge. I wanted to discuss the situation in a place where Dad had been happy and calm.
Dad’s very first words were, “Why don’t you just shoot me so I’m not such a burden. I’d rather be dead than go to a place like that!” Then he began the circular reasoning at which he had become so adept. “Why do you think I need to go there? You think I have this thing, this disease?”
I couldn’t back down now, although my heart quailed. “Yes, Dad, you have Alzheimer’s.”