
My car twists and curves as the city lights disappear behind me and my headlights spool deep into the dark abyss toward my rural home. I feel relieved I don’t have to face Dad tonight. I’m waiting until morning to break the news of Mom’s death to him. As I robotically drive into the rainy night, I chant the words over and over in rhythm with the wipers as they whisk away raindrops falling like tears. “She died peacefully; she was ready to go.”
I feel a lump in my throat as I try to swallow. My mind drifts back to a few hours before. Mom’s imminent death did not seem possible as we spent the entire day together and she was in high spirits. Her eyes sparkled as she shared many recollections. She had her shimmering snow-white silver hair whisked into soft curls that framed her blushed cheeks. And when Mom asked that Dad would not be present, I did not question. Then everything changed. Perplexed and shaken, I observed Mom looking otherworldly, like a startled fawn stunned just before flight. I automatically asked, “Mom, are you in any pain?” She took my hand and in her honeyed, ever-young voice, she answered, “No, I am ready to go. My only regret is that I’m going to miss everyone.” The magnitude of her statement shook me to my core, as the finality of it was palpable. Astonishingly, her clarity and awareness were full until her very last breath just moments later. I never thought death could happen this way. Truly beyond comprehension, it is hard to find words to describe such a flawless death.
As I drive further into the foreboding darkness, I think about my father. I now fully understand why Mom did not want him present. She could never say goodbye to him. Dad is drifting into a void because of his dementia while struggling to hold on in much the same way I felt in that instant, looking at Mom’s still lifeless body. It was as if I was outside my body, suspended, and nothing seemed real. I feel the same way now.
I pull into my driveway and question if I was even driving. How did I get here? I duck between raindrops and run upstairs to my bedroom and sprawl out on the bed. Exhausted, I don’t bother closing the open window as I listen to the peepers singing their blissful chorus outside. It’s an April springtime ritual and they are announcing the new life that’s approaching. I close my eyes in a kind of regenerative hypnotic state, remembering the lessons of self-hypnosis my father taught me as a child, and I fall asleep.
In the morning, I head over to the assisted living home we moved Dad into only a few weeks ago. Mom was supposed to join him, but I now know fate had another plan. I gently break the news to my father. “She died peacefully; she was ready to go.” Dad’s face looks vacant. I worry his dementia has taken over. My heart sinks.
For the next several months, I witness how hard my father tries to cope with the loss of his soulmate, the term he used to describe my mother. I thought with his increasing dementia, maybe he would think of her less and less or perhaps even forget her completely. Yet, surprisingly, even with the shroud of progressive dementia burdening him, Dad often spoke of her. And all the while he maintained his upbeat silliness, especially when he thought it would make me laugh. He frequently told me, “With any luck we will all grow old, but hopefully we’ll never grow-up.”
As I enter the assisted living home, I turn the corner and see my father, George, standing in the hallway. He looks dapper in his film noir-style hat and suit jacket and resembles many of his favorite characters from the classic movies he loves. He saunters over and teases in his best Cary Grant impersonation. “Do we know each other?” He thrusts his thumb up over his shoulder and exclaims, “Let’s escape this joint.” I chuckle and take his arm, musing. Dad has always playfully repeated chosen movie lines in various film star voices this way. I think he does this not simply to keep us entertained, but to distract from his serious side by cloaking it in humor. I believe it is the essential ingredient to his lifelong theatrical irony.
I lead Dad to my car as today’s the day he will stop wearing dress pants and a belt because he’s having trouble getting his pants off quick enough to use the bathroom. We are heading to the mall to buy sweatpants.
Finally, at the mall, Dad and I enter a large department store and find the men’s activewear section. We hunt through aisles of sweatpants, some piled high on shelves, others dangling on hangers. Dad is like a child. Excitedly, he touches the fabrics. Occasionally, he picks a pair up and then down. He picks one up and holds it high and pronounces, “Maybe?” Upon closer inspection, he disappointedly mutters,“Nope. These pants are weird, no pockets. Where will I put my wallet?” He puts it back on the pile. I pick up a black pair with a grey fabric stripe sewn down the side of each outer leg that has real, usable pockets. I exclaim, “Hey Dad, these look like your dress pants.” I hold them up. Dad ogles. He grabs them out of my hand and zips into the dressing room and re-emerges a few minutes later, voguing his new pants. He’s excited and sings out, “Wow! Who invented these?” Then, in his typical Charlie Chaplin manner, he pulls the elastic waistband in and out, slapping it against his bare skin. Afterward, he slides both his hands in and out of the parallel side pockets. All the while, his animated facial expressions change from wide-eyed questioning to head-bobbing affirmation. He ends his presentation by quickly pulling the pants and underwear down to his knees and back up again. He immediately blurts out, “Thirty seconds flat! Sold!” I laugh out loud and announce. “Dad, you are not for prime time.”
Next, I take Dad to the adult diaper aisle. I pick up a bag of diapers, open it and take one out. Dad’s face looks flabbergasted. His eyes widen. I reassure him in a soft voice. “Don’t worry Dad, they’re for just-in-case.” He grabs the diaper from my hand, and, in full Chaplin mode, he daintily holds it up in a show-and-tell way, first showing front, then back. This time his facial expressions are open-mouthed exasperation followed by wide-eyed surprise with each repetitive turn of the diaper. Then Dad’s Vito Corleone voice emerges in a low husky alto, “I’m old school. Is this a diaper?” I grin and answer in a clipped British accent while holding up another diaper, “No, sir. Many refer to this as padded underwear.” Dad smiles his widest grin while affirming in his own voice. That’s what I thought.
We head to the cashier and then to my house. Dad is staying with me tonight. On the drive, Dad falls asleep. I look over at him sleeping and smile at today’s folly. I think of my mother. She really was the anchor that tethered us all together. The consummate archetype of motherhood, Mom nurtured us while keeping us all in check. Especially Dad.
I pull into my driveway and try to wake Dad. His breathing seems labored, his face drawn, and I become concerned. I touch his shoulder and try to wake him again. “Dad. Dad. Are you okay?” Dad opens his eyes. I inquire, “How are you feeling?” Dad’s eyes light up. Smirking, he giggles, “With my hands.” Then he quickly wiggles his fingers on both his hands, back and forth. He guffaws. Relieved he is okay; I hug him, and we both go inside.
I put on Eric Clapton, Dad’s favorite. Dad, jazzman extraordinaire, sits in a large leather club chair and my bull terrier Vinny squeezes in next to him. It’s a funny sight as Dad snaps his customary bubblegum, crosses his legs, and shakes his foot along to the music.
About an hour later, Dad says he wants to shower before going to bed. He goes into the bathroom. I stand outside the door just in case he needs help. After a few minutes, I hear Dad call out but wait to enter as I realize he’s okay and is using self-hypnosis in the shower. He is instinctively chanting suggestive directives, telling himself over and over, “Remember Georgie-boy, you can remember, you can remember.” At first, I am overwhelmed with anguish, but as I contemplate further, I consider the positive repercussions and my anxiety eases.
Dad learned hypnosis in college, and he taught me and my three siblings. I beam as I recall the time he hypnotized a group of our friends at my sister’s holiday party, and we stopped him when we noticed almost everyone was asleep in their chair. It was both hilarious and bizarre to witness his magical skills.
There is no question about it; my father George is indeed an eccentric man in the genuine sense of what it means to be different. Although this reality sometimes adds a layer of difficulty for him, there is no changing that. Like the time I received an urgent call to come in to Dad’s assisted-living home. At first, I wasn’t worried, as they often called me in this way for false alarms, but I dropped everything anyway and made my way there. Once inside, I sat waiting to hear what the latest infraction was and further convinced myself it couldn’t be very serious because they were late. When the head administrator and two others entered, I began to feel uneasy. The administrator explained, “Your father didn’t know his name today when greeted. He said his name wasn’t George and that we must be referring to his twin brother. He said his name was Frank and George was wearing a brown hat. Then he tipped his hat and walked away.” I was relieved, as I knew Dad had done many similar skits like this one before. I quietly remarked. “Is this all?” The administrator’s voice grew quiet, and in a serious tone, she explained. “Unfortunately, no. This isn’t the only problem. Sometimes your father gets up in the middle of the night and wanders. He gets lost, even to the point of entering other residents’ rooms.” My face feels hot, and I lower my eyes as I swallow hard. The woman sitting next to me touches my hand gently and the administrator continues, “The thing that breaks our heart is that your father told us he was looking for his wife. We are worried about his safety because he also goes outside, and we can no longer accommodate him here because of his lapses in awareness. You’ll need to move him to a memory-care facility.” I assured them I would get him placed elsewhere and left, feeling defeated.
A few days later, I got some good news. Thankfully, because Dad served in the navy, he was eligible to live in a veteran’s home. I was excited there was one not too far from my house that had a memory-care wing. I was also relieved that upon admission, the medical team there placed Dad in the assisted care part of the memory-care facility. They felt he could still maintain some autonomy and assured me there was no way for him to leave the building without their knowledge. Unfortunately, the only disappointment was he could not bring his piano.
Dad was all settled in and one afternoon after my arrival at the veteran’s home, he wanted to show me something. We walked down a long hallway and made our way to an open area. As we turned the corner, I saw a brand-new upright piano. Dad’s eyes glistened as he motioned for me to sit. While Dad improvised his jazz compositions on the piano, I pulled out my cellphone and videoed him. His eyes closed, and his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. He was fully immersed in every chord, note, and phrase. It was astonishing. I relished having my father the jazzman back. Dad improvised on the piano several more times after that afternoon. Some days, music seemed to flow through his fingers. Other days, he would simply gaze at the keys in between wakefulness and sleep.
One of Dad’s last trips to my house, I picked him up as usual. He got in my car, asked for what he referred to as the banned bubblegum, popped it in his mouth and turned up the radio. He was in rare form, snapping the gum and trying to blow bubbles. As soon as we entered my house, he walked straight into the front sitting room. He instructed. Take my picture. I hurried into the other room to grab my camera, and when I came back, he was sitting on my vintage empire sofa. Dad often appeared in my photo projects, but this time was different. He had his own plan. Intrigued and excited, I waited and watched as he choreographed the shoot himself. First, he removed his shirt, shoes, and socks. Shifting in the seat with his back bolt upright, he grasped his knees and looked straight at me. I raised my camera and looked through the lens. I paused and took a deep breath. As I gaped, it was like I was seeing him for the first time. Here was my father, the man I always looked up to for his strength and athleticism, now looking emaciated, weighing one-hundred and ten pounds at five feet ten inches tall. A waif-like collection of bones being held together within the remaining clothes he wore.
Oddly, Dad seemed proud of his body as he posed. While referencing his lifelong role as a hypnotist, he whispered in a perfect Bela Lugosi drawl, “Look… into… my… eyes.” It worked. It was the lift I needed. I pressed the shutter. A moment later, Dad shifted his pose. Reclining outstretched side-ways, he looked amusingly reminiscent of Titian’s Renaissance painting, The Venus of Urbino. He retorted, “I have lived a long life, and I don’t have any health issues.” And then he quipped in his best Bogart voice, “And sweetheart, that’s the good and the bad news.” These two moments sum my father up perfectly. His quick wit and satirical sense of humor define his matter-of-fact attitude about aging, dementia, and even his eventual death.
So, of course, it didn’t surprise me when Dad, just a few weeks later, made his momentous final decision to stop eating and drinking full stop. I knew he must have planned this many months earlier, as he was skipping meals and losing weight. We discussed his final decree together and with his medical team at the veteran’s home.
I questioned him. “Do you realize what this means, Dad?”
His eyes widened, his voice forceful and much like the dad of old, he pointed toward the ceiling, “Of course. I’m going to be with your mother.” Dad immediately sensed my anxiety, stroked my arm, and in another moment of rare clarity and seriousness, he pleaded, “There’s no reason to worry. It’s not that I don’t love you. I just want to be with her.” I held back tears and shook my head yes.
On my father’s last night, just ten days later, it was surreal watching him accept his death. He had moments of fleeting awareness, trying to smile, spoke in silly rhymes while quoting different film stars and their voices to make me laugh. He encouraged me to take a video. Dad enjoyed his presence on Instagram where I shared our journey under the hashtag, #GeorgeMyDadInTheHat, named for the many hats he wore. I’d read him the comments there and tell him where the writer originated from, places like Paris, Berlin, and New York. He’d often state, “Why would they care about me? I’m just an ordinary man.” I’d often assure him, “Dad, you are anything but ordinary.”
I learned of my father’s death over the phone early the next morning. The nurse spoke the words as if reading a script, “I had just visited your dad and told him I would return in a few minutes to help him get dressed. His last words to me were, thank you, honey. I returned to his room ten minutes later. He had passed. I’m sorry.” And just like that, our phone call ended.
My father is dead. Gone forever.
I am in a daze. Devastated. I needed to be by his side in his last moments, like I was with Mom. I desperately want to hear one of his silly rhymes right now.
I sit on the edge of my bed and gaze out the window at the lake view. The shimmering water mirrors the bare trees surrounding the shoreline. I somehow hear my father’s buttery alto voice whisper his hypnotically directive words. Close your eyes. My body relaxes and my head falls forward. I feel weightless as I follow his instructions, as I have done so many times before. It’s intuitive. I close my eyes, take in a slow deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. I drift inward to a place of comfort and calm. A few minutes later, I awaken refreshed with a renewed awareness.
I vividly recollect our very last moments together. Dad was growing weaker and still trying to speak in silly rhymes or sing me a song with crazy lyrics. His clarity would vanish, and he’d drift off, back to his journey toward the light. I know he wanted to push through the door to his death, yet he would re-emerge when he recognized my presence. He was dying but holding on for me. Like the last November, autumn leaves outside his window, he too was only just clinging to life, tethered, but wanting to let go.
I know now; it is not a surprise Dad waited to be alone before he floated away. Dad never ever said a conventional goodbye. Least of all to me. In fact, just after I kissed his forehead and bid him goodnight, he struggled to get his words out to me. I leaned in close to hear him and held his hand. His voice was soft, his tone upbeat. And then he purred his favorite parting words. “See you later, alligator.” He squeezed my hand and looked me in the eye. I held back tears and smirked. And, just like always, I quipped back without a second thought the expected reply, “After a while, crocodile.”
I realize now I have no regrets. I stand up and again look out at the lake view now changed. The wind is blowing hard on the water and white caps are glimmering in the early afternoon sun. The last few leaves are being blown from the trees with a hurried energy. I feel a strange sense of wonder, like a child, and go downstairs and step outside. Above, a lace of woven clouds dances like unfurled satin on the tail of a kite. I pick up a handful of leaves and playfully toss them up into the wind. I watch as they rise and swirl and think of my father and mother twirling together above me arm in arm.