Time Capsules
It jolted me. The combination of comfort, utter sadness, nostalgia, anger, and bliss into one electric zap that jolted my whole being, producing enough tears to end this California drought.
I heard his voice, his real voice for the first time in far too long .
Recently, I was ready to share with Richard something that not everybody gets to see - time capsules that are tiny windows to the past that have become my most intimate and cherished treasures: Our family home videos.
Dad was the proud parent that wanted to document any little activity, accomplishment, celebration, and holiday on camera which, unfortunately meant he was always the one behind the camera. Each tape is like an easter egg hunt - there are golden eggs scattered throughout that show his handsome face and silly yet genuine demeanor. But his voice… his voice is always there, asking me to smile and wave to the camera, blow out my candles, or share laughter with mom.
As time passes, naturally memories tend to fade and minds can play tricks - did that really happen? Am I remembering that right? These memory tapes validate what my mind was starting to leave behind… he was a present father. The best Dad. And had the ability to make anyone laugh by just being himself (with a witty remark or two 😉). But what I didn’t realize, was how much I missed his voice and how quickly the strength and warmth in his words and tone was beginning to fade.
As he slowly dwindles away, my memories are following suit. The realization that I will have spent more time on this Earth without my Dad, than with him, makes me sick. The same night we finished watching home videos, Richard held me in his arms while the tear-inducing jolt ran through my body. Day to day I adapt more to my Dad-less life. Ask anyone who lost someone unexpectedly or too soon - you kick into survival mode, grief becomes the new normalcy, and there’s a point where you just accept the way your cards played out and you have to keep going. I met the love of my life, I travel near and far, I have built a career, and I have friendships that bring me joy. I am living each day to the fullest and push the thoughts I am not allowed to have everyday deep into what I can only describe as a bottomless pit, because with a bottom there would be far too many overflows. But in this moment in Richard’s arms, I allowed myself to imagine a different life with a different future. I pictured Dad’s arm around Richard sharing jokes (probably at my expense) with lots of laughter. I pictured Dad walking me down the aisle, him and Mom holding their grandchild for the first time together. I envisioned the sheer joy and pride on Dad’s face as he experienced life with his family. I imagined his words expressing he was proud of my choices, my accomplishments, I imagined life right now with him in it.
I broke the grief rule. I veered away from the survival guide. And the consequence was a pain only those who have a parent with early Alzheimer’s Disease understand and relate to. There’s something cold about complete strangers being the only ones to know your pain. I guess I have the opportunity to change my perspective on that and find comfort in knowing there are others out there, but in this season of my grief, I choose to feel cold. And that’s okay.
Days later it was the most beautiful perfect day for an afternoon visit to his home. It’s been a year an a half now of calling the Magnolia House his home. It was 75 degrees with wispy clouds in the sky. We were sitting on the bench as I fed him a popsicle while playing his favorite music - Elton John of course, admiring the beautiful flowers, fruit and vegetable garden, appreciating the birds that also called Magnolia their home while rubbing his back. His spine protruding, shoulders pointy, and pants hanging due to the amount of weight he has lost. The moment was such a juxtaposition, how could such a beautiful home, day, and moment also hold so much grief and pain? But the answer is simple: a bright and sunny day is still a day without the Dad I know. It’s still a day that I push my grief into a bottomless pit. And another day contributing to my faded memories.
I will continue to visit him, rub his back and give him that time to relax outside with his baby girl. I will continue to follow the survival guide and make the most of this life he has given me. I am so appreciative of my memory tapes so myself, Richard, and one day my future children will get to peek into the tiny windows and learn more about the man that I have the privilege of calling Dad.
And hear a voice so loving, it’s jolting.
