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.