A Long Journey's End

 The theme of this blog for the years I have been creating it has been the events and the considerations that come from this journey we call life. The posts have been about the twists and turns, the moments of joy and the moments of tragedy, the successes and the set backs. Rarely has this blog dealt with the end of the journey. 

But September 5, 2020 my dad, my mentor, my hero ended his journey of 98 years. With a body worn down by age and complications from hearing loss and dementia, he finally set his pack down and rested. We had all six sons (technically 3 were step-sons, but in this moment it was diffused distinction) each had a few moments to remember dad. The constant theme was that he was a simple, gracious, humorous, hard working man. He loved us all and embraced us all. Just the family he loved was over 80 people and every single one of them lovingly called him Grandfather. Each has a different memory of this man, each special in their own way. 

So we spent the week thinking about him, remembering all the funny and poignant things he said and did. He loved puns and quirky little sayings. The last couple of years he would greet everyone with "I'm looking better!" Then explaining he could still see and was proud of that. With his memory issues, he would repeat this every time he saw someone, even if it was just a few moments before. And the graciousness of people who knew him would laugh each time and he would grin about his clever approach to old age. I never tired of seeing how much he enjoyed these word games.  

His body had begun to wear down over the last several years. His memory was short cycled questions over and over again. He went through a time where he knew he was forgetting and it frustrated him. It was a blessing when he would forget, but not realize he had forgotten. It eased my heart to know he was not angry with himself over his memory. He was not as mobile as before and refused to use a walker, but as time went on even he had to concede that he needed assistance. 

But in spite of all that was failing him, his memory, his hearing, his body, he remained  sweet, gracious, humorous and faithful. Faithful to his God, faithful to his wife, faithful to all us. When it would have been easy to be bitter or mean, he remained who he truly had always been. Perhaps as we age and we begin to lose the independence, perhaps we reveal who we always were. And to me he revealed his greatness in his last moments by showing that the man he was years ago is still the same man today. 

Godspeed to dad, Grady B. Jolly. You were truly one of a kind. And if I haven't said it enough, I love you and I will miss you. 

Don 

COVID, Stroke, Hospice

Sunday afternoon in the midst of getting our Sunday agenda completed, I received a call out of the blue saying Dad had a stroke and was in the ER. After a moment of panic and fear we moved into our emergency mode, making calls, informing. My panic was slowly morphing to dread as the day wore on and the reports continued. Due to COVID I could not visit in the ER, so we continued to parse every word and every nuance from the nurse to the doctor and back again. "Lost use of his left side and his speech is slurred." stuck in my mind and settled on my heart. A man known for his energy, though diminished in years, was now lying alone in an ER trying to hear what was said and wondering what was wrong. If nothing else, this COVID scare has separated us and those we love. I detested it before, I hate it now. 

Through a restless night and impatient waiting and asking for results from C-scan and other tests, they decided to admit him into the hospital. The first tiny bit of good news was that this particular hospital would allow 1 specified visitor a day from 11AM to 6PM. I was there at 10:30am eyeing the people already there who I calculated I could beat to front of the line. Fortunately I did not have to body block anyone and we all got in pretty quickly after the standard questions. They gave me new mask, a wrist band that said "VISITOR" and a sticker to wear in case anyone missed the wrist band. I was logged in, banded, stickered, and approved. Then I raced to the elevators and impatiently rode up to Dad's floor, signed in at the nursing station and got directions to his room...

I had not seen Dad since April. The COVID lockdown was severe at the memory assisted facility. He had fallen in March and April and I had picked him up from the ER both times at the curb and delivered him to the memory care facility to the curb, but I had seen him twice. Both times he had hit his head and had bruising so he looked like the loser in a prize fight. Both times it made me sad, but it was still him with his questions and good humor. (I told him the second time that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he said go ahead and laugh, he would do the crying). This time I was not ready. He was shrunken and misshapened from the stroke. I bent over him and he seemed bewildered by who I was. Fortunately the nurse left the room at that moment and I yanked off my mask so he could see my face. He tried to smile and garbled out "..on" Yes, its me.."on" 

The next few days brought MRI tests, swallow tests, physical therapy, oral therapy and very few positive results. At 98 a stroke had leveled a sweet, gentle man of integrity. As the next few days slipped by filled with decisions and reporting my siblings, it became clear that this event had done more to end his time than anything in the last 10 years. In a fraction of a second, a tiny artery in his head had undone all the vitality, the memories, the good works, the essence of the one I call "Dad". And as the days continued it occurred to me that this was not going to change. This stroke had done the damage that even anti-aircraft fire in the second World War could not do. 

So my days were filled with making decisions based on lousy choices. The tension between quality of life and hope for recovery was infused into every decision I made. After a late night conference with my siblings we all agreed that quality was paramount. But I agonized in private about the consequences of those decisions. Until today. 

They delivered him back to the memory care facility after I had gotten him signed up for Hospice care. The first night was rough. He was restless and wanted to get up. Margaret was trying to make him rest. The Hospice nurse called me 3 times to say he can't stay in the bed that he and Margaret had shared for almost 40 years. I was exasperated that I couldn't help due to the lockdown. In frustration I asked the nurse, "What do you want me to do?!?" She realized then that I was blocked and she would have to handle. So at midnight they found a solution (an aide sitting by the bed). They delivered a hospital bed for my dad and twin bed for Margaret the next day. Not the ideal solution, but those are all gone anyway.

Then this morning I called the attendant in the facility and asked how they were doing. The attendant giggled a little and said they found Margaret getting into his hospital bed. He was very sad and she wanted to comfort him. And all those decisions about rehab hospitals and feeding tubes and hospice care all fell into place. He is with the one he needs the most, and she is with the one she fears won't be here with her. It was a sweet, sad, and somehow affirming moment for me. To know that his life partner, however longer that is, will do what she needs to comfort them both. Can any of us ask for more? 

So, Godspeed to all out there who have lived this same week at one time or another. I come through it exhausted, emotional, and grateful. I guess that is the best we can do at the moment.

Don

Pride and Prejudice

This post has been brewing for a while. Not because I didn't have opinions, or because I was afraid of the backlash, or even because I am lazy (well, I'm a little lazy). This post was delayed for a vary simple reason. I am a white, mature (read older) adult male. And apparently it is my voice that has not been strident enough or loud enough or condescending enough to make the change in our culture that everyone is crying for. Several Facebook posts have claimed that only my voice can change the situation. Sort of a "you caused this mess, now you clean it up." So the voice you hear may be a bit confused, a bit hesitant, but it will also be honest.

White privilege keeps getting applied to my life in ways that are both apparent and covert. I understand the application and I understand the ways that simply being white and middle-class clears so many hurdles for me. Until recently prejudice was something that I observed, but never felt. But two things have happened that have stirred a bit of awareness in my world.

First of all I have gotten to the age in life and stage in career where my age is a primary factor in job opportunities. Several times over the past couple of years job opportunities came to me and I was not even considered. "You are too valuable where you are..", "we are looking for someone outside this industry.." Legally they can't say, "you are too old and we want someone younger". It took some time to figure out that they didn't look at my years of experience, dedication to the job, expertise, skill, previous victories. But instead looked at my birth date and disqualified me. There are only two areas where white men feel the frustration of prejudice; age and obesity. Outside of that we never have a moment of fear or frustration or humiliation.

Second event was the adoption of our youngest granddaughter who is a mixed race child. She has captured us completely with her spirit, her busyness, her hugs, and all the other little joys she brings to us. And as every grandparent will tell you the concern is not once removed.  I spend a huge part of my spiritual disciplines on behalf of my eight grand children. But little Miss Ruby, our little brown girl, brings a different focus to my prayers and thoughts and contemplation. My heart aches and my hands curl into fists to think she will be mistreated or abused  because she is brown. It is no longer a fight against the prejudice in the world, but now a personal fight against anyone who would harm this bright, little girl who adopted us.

So what does this mean? My bride and I were discussing all the ways this current state of affairs has changed our American world. My point was that no one can speak without being condemned by someone else. If I quit my job and become a full time advocate for minority rights, I will be skewered because I came down from my mountain and deigned to share my privilege. And these attitudes towards me will come from all parties, from all sides. On the other hand, if I stay silent I am the problem (silence is affirmation, etc).

My bride (who is far more insightful than I am) took her poke at the world in this way. She ordered some female apparel and the color designation was "skin tone", read white skin tone. When asked by the manufacturer if she would recommend this product she told them, "I don't think I can until you change the color designation to beige or tan or something like that. This is not skin tone, there are multitudes of skin tones." The message was so subtle in the marketing of the product that I missed it entirely. My bride did not. The subtle message was that "skin tone" is white and the other skin tones don't count. And she knows if it affects sales, they will change it.

I'm not sure but what the changes that need to be made won't be the small subtle changes in everyday life. We can all rage and rally when the obvious injustice is done, but the event won't help the victim. We must find ways to make the changes so the victims have a voice after the event. Then find a way to stop the events of racial prejudice. The only way to do this is to treat everyone with the same compassion, fairness, and integrity as we do our sweet Ruby and the other 7.

Godspeed to those who have felt this more strongly and more intimately than I have for much longer than I have. I'm sorry my voice has been so long silent, but it will be no more.
Don

Bado

I met Betty Evelyn Lindsey in 1973 while in romantic pursuit of her daughter who would become my bride for the next half century (almost). As in most cases by young, in-love young men I did not pay much attention to my bride-to-be's parents. They were a normal hurdle to get over to marry the one of my dreams.
But the intervening years have been filled with moments that involved Betty known as Bado to the family. My  youngest daughter caught her essence pretty well in a FB post pointing out correctly that she was not the "let's bake cookies" grandmother. Nor was she the wisdom dispensing mother-in-law. As my daughter pointed out she was stubborn and independent. And she was those things. Other words I would use are fiesty and independent.

She had a hard time in life. She lived in a problematic marriage, she was extreme in her opinions on politics and religion, she could exasperate the best of us. But there were some other qualities as well. Qualities that I see crop up in my bride. The most basic quality is one of enduring strength.
It would have been understandable for her to give up, to stop flailing at the winds life kept blowing her way. But she stood defiant in the efforts to subdue her. She might say outlandish things, she might get on your last nerve, but she was a force in the family and to those around her and she never shied away from letting you know how she felt.
The other quality that my bride shares with her is this. At the end of the most intense arguments where voices were raised and doors were slammed, she would insist on a hug from each family member as the family was gathering up to leave. While moments before you might be ready to push her down a flight of stairs, she would insist on a hug. You still might be tempted to see if the hug could be especially tight we all usually gave in. If you were family she would hug you and tell you she loved you. It was up to you to deal with the dissonance of your own emotions.

She and I had our own run-ins. Especially after my kids came along. It was important to draw the boundaries and make it clear (she was not good at understanding subtelty). But as mentioned above, she would insist on a hug and a fairwell "yoohoo" as the car pulled away. We all joke about the yoohoo now, making us chuckle as we leave each other in a sort of tribute to her and Aunt Bess (gone these few years) and the last of the surviving sisters, Marianna.

For the past year the primary care has fallen to my bride. It has been long and difficult struggle and the independence that so fully described Bado was finally taken from her.  Bado struggled this past year with numerous health complications and a continual decline. It wasn't until the health finally left this almost 92 year old that the independence finally was burned away. However, the strength and the independence lives on in my bride, but this time around seasoned with grace.

Godspeed, Bado, you were one of a kind. Rest assured you left some really good things behind. And I am especially grateful you left me with the love of my life.
Don