I Miss My Dad

I miss my Dad. As an adult child of an elderly parent, I understand on many levels that it is the normal course of life for my father to precede me in most things, including the final transition out of this world. What I was not prepared for was the long, slow goodbye of dementia, a disease which gradually fades the substance and spirit of a person until an unfamiliar entity remains. So while he is still living, I am grieving the loss of his presence in my life, the connection that a father and son enjoy through love, conversation and shared experience.

Dad was always the go-to guy in the family, able to fix nearly anything mechanical or electrical. Often he devised unique solutions for tricky problems, and he even made his own tools or “jigs” for special woodworking challenges. His father was an electrician, and in WWII Dad was a B-29 flight engineer; so he came by his skills through legitimate life experience. Perhaps one of the most precious gifts he gave me was how to “get the feel” of something so that I could safely use power tools, ride a bicycle, gap a sparkplug and control a chain saw.

The interface between human and tool can be powerful when understood and deftly used. Dad demonstrated infinite patience with me while under his careful observation I learned to solder, make precise wood cuts with a band saw or correctly mount and position the work at hand in a bench vise. For as long as I can remember, he encouraged me to observe, participate, practice and finally master many tasks by hand. No doubt about it, this is greatest gift he has given me, freely and without judgment or expectation.

The understanding of “how to” goes far beyond mere coordination: it is the ability to produce the intended result by anticipating how the human-tool system will behave. Application of this awareness, this sense of being able to select the correct approach, act with intention and respond to any unintended consequences has paid huge dividends in my life. I have successfully applied this acquired sense to many activities my father never attempted or mastered like snow skiing or playing the piano.

Now 91, Dad’s capacity for understanding the world around him has diminished to the point where simple tasks seem insurmountable one day and familiar the next. His memory fails him in ways far worse than merely forgetting: he sometimes blends memories of people and events into a new reality which never really existed. When he is aware of this having happened, he is understandably upset and frustrated. So our family tends to just go along with whatever spontaneous comments he makes to avoid drawing attention to the fact that he is slipping. This is an uncomfortable but necessary accommodation.

The notion of pre-grieving a parent’s passing may seem odd to some. I find it allows me to embrace the reality of his decreasing presence in this world without being in denial about the inevitable. I have stopped railing at the Furies over his unfortunate path which helps me focus on making whatever time he has left as healthy an experience as possible. I don’t know whether any true healing can start yet for the loss of my father, but I am confident that having integrity around what is and what is yet to come keeps me grounded.

Someday soon there will be a eulogy to write. I have no idea what will come to me as suitable for his memorial. Perhaps I’ll get the feel of it, just as Dad taught me.

Out of the fog and into the frying pan

I am Molly’s wingman. From a moto enthusiast perspective, we are an odd couple: an Italian naked street bike and a high-performance motard. From a rider perspective, we are cut from the same cloth, seeking a safe and exhilarating ride while improving our skills and confidence.

We have had two great excursions on our motos. During an unusually warm spell in January, we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge together, riding safely in formation to appear as a “unit” to other motorists. We toured the Marin Headlands and looped back across the GG Bridge for a delicious lunch in the Avenues.

Our 2nd excursion to Moss Beach Distillery included many microclimates relatively short trip. We experienced calm sunshine in the Avenues, blowing fog on Skyline, crosswinds near the beaches, heavy overcast at Devil’s slide. I noted the lowest temperature at Skyline, about 52 degrees, much cooler than I expected for July. The ever-changing lighting, wind and road surface conditions offered many opportunities to be a better rider. Even though traffic was not particularly heavy, we had an ample supply of drivers with poor judgment to keep us on our toes anticipating our next defensive maneuver.

After a wonderful lunch in the City and time spent reflecting on the day, I headed across the Bay Bridge toward home where I knew it would be much hotter. The temperature in San Francisco was in the low 70s mid-afternoon, and by the time I reached the Bay Bridge the air temperature had dropped to the 60s. Approaching the Caldecott tunnel which connects the cooler Bay Area to the warmer inland Diablo Valley, I noted the gage read 72. Exiting the tunnel, my air temperature gage behaved more like the second hand of a watch as the indication read 80, 81, 82, 83 and kept going. In less than a mile it read 90, 91, 92, 93 and by the time I reached my exit at Lafayette, the reading peaked at 103 degrees.

The effect of dry, hot air on my body was powerful, even through my protective gear. I realized how quickly the moisture was leaving me, and that soon I would be a mummy if I didn’t reach home to rehydrate. The last temperature I saw was 105 degrees when turning into my driveway, relieved to have made it. So in a mere 30 miles, I drove out of the fog and into the frying pan.

(A rare fogless day from the Marin Headlands)

Zealotry in any form is dangerous

On November 5, 2009 at Fort Hood military base in Texas, thirteen people were killed and 30 injured in a massacre by Major Nidal Malik Hasan. News of the tragedy has dominated the US media, and the debates over the Major Hasan's motives are likely to consume all the political oxygen for the foreseeable future. The collateral societal damage is predictable: grieving and angry people will ascribe the tragedy to religion, challenging the patriotism of American Muslims serving our country because we have been engaged in a war on Islamist terrorism for most of this decade. Instead of jumping to "furious and intemperate conclusions" about why this occurred, I was struck by the vivid, almost inherent conflict in the fabric of the perpetrator.

What has been revealed to us is that this person is a man, an American, a soldier, a psychiatrist, and a Muslim. He was also scheduled to be dispatched to the war in Afghanistan. Certainly there are other important attributes of who he was at the moment he made the decision to use violence against fellow soldiers and fellow Americans. What perplexes me is how any single vector of one's being could so completely overpower the integrity of the entire person so that violence of this magnitude results. Call it radical fanaticism or extreme zealotry, my tenet is that any form of this mindset is unjustified and tragically dangerous.

Stepping back from the Fort Hood events, I ask myself a broader question: how might each of us explore ourselves, our own personal philosophies, beliefs and principles, to determine if we might be motivated to act with a singular purpose? I'm not suggesting confining the examination to violent outcomes, but any unthinking, unreasoned one without considering the consequences. Sadly, one doesn't have to look far to see how we treat one another when motivated by prejudice, hatred or greed. What if instead we treated each other with respect, integrity and generosity? Can we agree to replace fear with understanding?

Returning to the tragedy at hand, I offer the BBC link as an access way for more editorial from the global press:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8347361.stm