“It’s terrible. I can’t even remember my own grandchildren’s names,” my father lamented to me. It was only a few months after he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s that I sat with him after Thanksgiving dinner. With shoulders hunched forward and tears glistening, he looked on from the dining table as his six rambunctious grandchildren horsed around in the living room. I watched him as he searched his own memory for names he couldn’t quite come up with. My heart broke. It was a sadness I couldn’t bear. In an effort to lighten the mood, I joked about how that happened to me all the time; mixing up my own children’s names, let alone those of their cousins.
At other times, Dad would worry aloud that he never wanted to be a burden to anyone in this way. I would reassure him that he could never be a burden to us but that he was merely providing us with an opportunity to show our love for him.
When someone is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia, I imagine it must be personally devastating… a fearful and lonesome journey…
Why do I have to imagine this even though my own father went through it? Shouldn’t I know first-hand what his experience was like? You would think so, but then I would have to have been “present” enough throughout the experience. Sure I was there physically, but emotionally I was hiding. Not that I was aware of it at the time, but looking back, I am tormented by the fact that I wasn’t really “there” for him in the way he would have needed me to be.
He presented me with several opportunities to meet him in the tunnel that was closing in around him. My intense fear of being engulfed with sadness, being caught in a conversation I didn’t know how to handle or wasn’t prepared to have, propelled me in the opposite direction… to safer, higher ground. I chuckled away those opportunities, holding my breath, hoping he would follow me away from the edge of the precipice. Fortunately, or so I thought at the time, he did yield, probably sensing that I was unwilling to leave familiar, solid ground.
More than ten years later, after much introspection, I’m left wondering how I could have been so blind. My father was lonely and scared on this unfamiliar leg of his journey. He may not even have realized it himself, but I believe he was asking me to accompany him in facing his fear of the unknown… to help him carry his burden. In the midst of confusion, he just wanted reassurance that someone understood him, validated his feelings, and could be there, heart and soul, when he most needed it.
As a rule, I make an effort not to wallow in regret. I prefer to learn the lesson and move on. This one, though… this one is tough because I don’t get a “do-over.”
Reflecting on this experience has taught me to question and ask myself: Do I value safety and comfort more than accompanying a loved one down a foreign path… a path that will, with certainty, present multiple unknown demons? Do I have enough faith in my authentic self to know that if I stay grounded in my heart, the skills I’ll need, will appear, as I need them? Furthermore, am I okay with just muddling through from time to time and possibly even blowing it? Can I be by their side in silence, as deafening and awkward as it may feel, without needing to mentally scramble to fill the void?
Ultimately, do I have the courage to be vulnerable enough to go down that road, offering my naked, loving presence and nothing else??
~Zanne
InSearchOfAuthenticity.com
© 2017 Zanne
In Search of Authenticity 
Dear Zanne,
What an incredible sharing! I feel your pain and regret, and though you are right, this one doesn’t have a “do-over”, your deep love and concern was always your intent. I’m sure it was known and experienced by your father even if he may not have words.
Thank you for allowing me to walk alongside you as you continue your “Search of Authenticity”.
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Thank you, Gabrielle, for your heartfelt message. It is much appreciated, my friend!… XO
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Love this post, Zanne. I’ll save it to read over and over.
Recently, I took my healthy father out for lunch. He drove, and we passed slowly by the burial ground he and my mom will someday spend eternity in. He pointed out the plots they have bought. Like you, I joked in my discomfort, saying, “Jeesh Dad…where’s the waterfront property I pictured you near?” How uncomfortable to have this discussion with him! It was a reminder to me to spend time with him. XO
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Yes! Those are EXACTLY the conversations I’m talking about, Dianne! It’s only natural to try to avoid anything that makes us uncomfortable. I hope to become more aware in these situations, and see them as opportunities to share powerful, emotional moments.
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We haven’t met YET but I feel like I know you quite well already~I see this post as tapping in to the same thoughts you had regarding being present for young children~those to whom you claimed it was all too often easier to distract from their distress than it was to truly empathize. Both blogs certainly bring attention to identifying the true definition of presence, I think.
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I’m happy to see you use the word, “YET” as it leaves open the door of possibility that we WILL meet some day. 😉 You’re absolutely right, Madeleine, it’s that same sense of “presence” that I’ve written about before. It’s fearlessly offering to another the true essence of who we are in our souls.
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This emotional/ethical demon plaques me as well. It is a regret that I will never be able to put behind me. I feel that “I should have “known” better”. Then again, part of me feels that I did the best I could at the time. So possibly it may be that as we grow older we also grow wiser and more in tune with the universe; possibly we HAVE learned from our mistakes because we DID move forward. Peace.
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Yes, we all have regrets, Sue. I feel it’s imperative to my well-being, though, to learn a lesson from it and move on as much as possible, because as Gabrielle pointed out, it’s also about our intention. We did the best we could at the time. That being said, “…as we know better, we do better.” (Maya Angelou) As we continue to grow in our awareness, we do move forward, however imperceptible it may seem at times.
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