Today is my fathers 91st birthday, a young buck really when you consider my mother who turned 95 on January 1st. They are in the hospital together, my dad went in for a stroke and my mother, not to be outdone, came in a day later with pneumonia. My father has also been diagnosed with dementia. He sang songs that made no sense and he joined me in singing happy birthday to him. He came in and out of lucidity and yet this was one of my favorite conversations with him. During his life he was a brilliant man, a scholar, a bishop and father of 14. But since a heart attack and subsequent quadruple bi-pass about 15 years ago my father has come out of his head and into his heart.
As a little girl I always saw his big heart. I used to write him poetry. "Dear old Dad, only one I've ever had." (My poetry was quite profound even then.) I used to call him cuddly and he and the the rest of the family used to think that was the funniest thing they had ever heard, as he was quite a stern man. It wasn't until I became a teenager that I lost my ability to see who he really was.
I'm glad I'm back in my heart now so that I can enjoy this time of nonsense and tenderness. He told me today that he always knows it's me on the phone because I call him POP. I said, "Is that because I'm the only one that calls you that?" He said "Not only that but I can feel the tenderness of your heart beneath the word."
I'm hoping that I can keep cultivating conscious dementia so that I can continue to appreciate the important parts of life.
Happy Birthday Pop
I love you forever
Megan
Sunday, April 20, 2008
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2 comments:
I loved this, Megan. Your writing is so tender and brings me into the vision and moment--touches my heart.
This is why I love working with those who are close to transitioning. The lessons from them are so huge and profound. It brings a clarity of the importance of life and purpose for me. All the busy shallowness of my life fades away and I connect to heart.
I saved the letter I wrote your dad, btw. I'll mail it to you and you can choose what to do with it.
I have a patient who just last week lost the ability to wipe her nose--it was one of the final body movements she could make. Upon leaving she still mouthed the words, "thanks for the day"--humbling, touching, filled my heart.
Thanks for the day, Megan. Thanks for every day that you share with me.
Megan~
Thank you for your continual example to me of being IN your humanness and teaching others by simply being there. I am appreciating your genuine childlike zest for life and feel inspired by you. I am so grateful to count you amongst my friends. I am truly blessed.
With love,
Angie
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