Have you ever cried so hard you felt like the pit of your stomach may come out? It hurts so bad you think the air in your lungs will disappear and you will die? I have cried this cry just a few times in my life. Today was one of the times.
Two years ago I sat in a purgatory of sorts wondering what the letter my husband wrote would do to my life. Would it merely discuss his feelings about my caring for my parents and pressuring him to let them move in with us? Or would it be about our relationship that seemed to continue to suffer despite my intentions to take better care of it. Yet it always seemed every time I went to give our relationship attention, dad’s condition worsened. Two years ago this week my biggest fears were 1) losing my marriage and 2) the day my dad would not recognize me.
We all know I lost my marriage that year. It is not David’s fault nor mine: it is ours. But those tears that stole the air from my lungs were cried during that time as I felt my reality unraveling, MY lifepath changing as I mourned for my children’s, my father’s, my entire family’s.
Just two months before David announced he couldn’t live with me anymore, I had broken my elbow. A minor inconvenience, it slowed us down as dad still participated in Alzhiemer’s classes and Truman had preschool at the time. I remember dad turning to me one day as we were driving and saying, “Don’t go having another baby or having a heart attack on me. You really are a life saver. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The morning after David told me his decision, I was in dad’s living room when I sent my sister a text messagewith tears in my eyes. It told her I would only be able to take care of dad one day a week from that day forward as David had told me he wanted to leave me. If I was to be a single mom I would be too busy to be of much help and if my marriage was to be saved I would need the time to save it. Her response read, “April fool’s?”
In my grief and devastation I had forgotten what day it was. I replied back,”How I wish it was.”
But, it was my reality and I survived it. Today I still grieve those times but the ache isn’t as consuming. Instead I am living my second worse fear.
When my father was diagnosed we were told he had 5 to 7 years to live. We knew what kind of life he would be living in the end and prayed that it would be shorter. I could handle a broken body but not his broken mind.
It is five years later. Yesterday I sat with him at a table. There were paints and paper in front of him but he couldn’t understand that. He was rambling to me in nonsense words for ten minutes as he sipped the cappuccino I brought him to give him empty calories. He looked at me and said, “I wish one of the girls could visit but I know they’re busy.”
My eyes stung. When I came into the room, as I always do, I kissed him and told him I was Jill Marie, his baby girl. But he no longer recognized me. I rushed to tell him once again that I was his baby girl, his youngest daughter, his Jill Marie. His eyes also turned red around the edges as they filled with glassy tears. “Jill? You’re Jill Marie?”
“Yes, daddy, I’m your Jill Marie. It’s ok.”
To save myself from crying uncontrollably in front of him a wave of anger washed over me. This disease is inhumane to everyone it touches. It breaks souls and spirits. Anger was an emotion I could control better while I tried to get dad to paint, then talk to a psychiatrist, then eat.
It was in my car, alone that the tears came. I sent a message to a friend telling them I was struggling with a bad day. Then it hit me. The air left my chest, my stomach ached and I let out a cry. It hurt to the depths of my soul where only God can see.
Today he accepted I was his daughter quicker. However he was in far worse shape hallucinating, anxious and less my dad. I know there will be a day I surviveĀ this just as I am surviving the loss of my marriage. But my dad not recognizing me is worse than my dad dying. In death he escapes to a peaceful home with Our Father in heaven. Not recgonizing me is a purgatory all its own.
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