Life Happens…

“This is not working,” she moans to herself in the blackness of her bedroom. She forces her eyes closed against a few thinly illuminated lines decorating the adjacent wall, snakingly squeezing through the tiny slotted spaces of closed wooden shutters, and red-lighted numbers above her head telling time. Slipping further under soft cotton sheets, she pulls her head inside like a turtle hiding, trying out invisibility. Restlessness dances in her head, knowing the alarm will ring at 5 a.m. a brief one and a half hours from now. It never helps, she knows, trying to avoid wakefulness. Surrendering but not willing to stifle yawns, she forcefully elongates herself, stretching every muscle awake, curls herself into a ball before throwing back the covers, alerting her body one more time that defeat is evident, time to arise. Her body stiff and straight as a board, the tendons allow a final pulling while she rotates, pointed toes reaching for the floor, she slides partway over the edge, bends her reluctant torso and sits, then propels herself into the bathroom. So, the day begins well before sunrise. Gathering the last toiletry items, she locks up her suitcase then quietly descends thirteen worn carpeted stairs, performing a final check for passport, wallet, keys, camera, all set.

Never did she expect to be a widow taking her father, now a recent widower, on a trip, her second adventure away from home, this time with a grieving man suffering from late-stage Alzheimer’s. The black sky begins to give way to dark hues of blue blending into the silent, shape-shifting shadowy patches overhead as she merges onto the highway. A two-hour drive to Niagara Falls, where she will pick up her anxiously excited passenger, gives her time to collect thoughts while half-listening to the low hum of rhythmic sound coming through speakers, interrupted briefly by news reports. The eastern horizon, in a display of subtlety, slowly spreads upwards melding morning’s rainbow of rising oranges, yellow, and white into the dark blue changing its depth of colour as pillows of greyish edged fluffiness float across the expanse, exposing azure tones. Childlike wonderment shows on his face. Luggage stowed and passport ready, he eagerly slides into the passenger seat, buckles his seatbelt, when reminded, and points the way to the bridge spanning the river of rapids and whirlpools, just north of the roaring, cascading energy of water pounding rocks, their route.

Being a silent driver, she finds herself withdrawing into yesteryears of father and daughter activities to fight the gnawing in her guts. Camping, fishing, skating, swimming, running, playing badminton, tennis, games against the pool shark, air shows, collecting photographs of jets he brought home from work for her bedroom walls, and exploring Air Force bases infuse her with delight. An eclectic decorative display of posters covers her bedroom wall as a teenager, his influences evident in choice, jets, surfers, singers, actors, philosophical art, and music charts. Cherished memories include watching hockey, roasting marshmallows, meticulous ironing, buttoning, and correct directional hanging of his Canadian Air Force uniform shirts and wearing his dress hat. Odd how he taught her closet management without ever entering her room. Always supportive, on track practice (or volleyball, swimming, badminton) mornings, his fingers would crawl along the wall seeking the light switch, and would quietly say, “Watch your eyes,” before darkness gave way while he remained outside the door. She senses an upturning of her lips. Chancing a quick sideways glance, she observes her father, a gentle, kind, and handsome man. She aches for his loss, he looks so vulnerable, unsure, and not the confident father she has known her whole life. He turns his eyes to the passing landscape, only occasionally glancing her way with moistened eyes. Uncomfortable, with the creeping thought he will cry and talk about mom, dredging up many unwelcome stirrings within, her fingers rest upon the tuning button, scanning radio stations while the other hand grips the steering wheel tighter. Relaxing to familiar oldies, he finally speaks while she listens focused on the road, combating glistening eyes. The unexpected commonality of painful loss adds a new dimension to their relationship. She suddenly becomes acutely present.

Static interrupts when driving into southern Appalachia, where the Blue Ridge, Allegheny, and Unaka Mountains dominate. Golden, gleaming rays of light stream through car windows while the half-moon still emits its light almost directly opposite. Steep, winding roads allow them jaw-dropping views of the expansive peak-filled vista interspersed with verdant pasturing lowlands in deep valleys. Glancing up, down, from side to side, and all around, pinnacles reach up as high as the valley dips low. The most magnificent views entice drivers to forget the highway-twisting turns demanding extra attention to the journey. Various shades of green mixed with golden-brown hues, painting a colourful vista of birch, pine, spruce, beech, fir, oak, sumac, cedar, and other trees almost totally blanket the mountainsides in every direction. Occasionally rock faces, shimmering as if streaked with mica from sunlight’s tentacles touching water running down smooth surfaces, give an impression of glittering silver against the blackness of the protruding stone.

An ear-popping, 5412′ (1.65 km) descent from the East River Mountain Tunnel to another, routes them through State lines into North Carolina. Sharp-angled zigzagging roads and avoiding the transport trucks dangerously careening downhill at 70 mph (112 km/h), takes white-knuckled concentration. Several hours of steep declines, first begun at Flat Iron’s summit high above the East River Tunnel, to the rear-view mirror’s scene at the base of the southern tipped Appalachian mountain range, leave an indelible imprint on the mind.

Wispy white feathery traces of clouds drift slowly across the blue sky. Below, warm May waters of Lake Hartwell welcome father and daughter diving from the anchored boat drifting between South Carolina and Georgia. While laying on her back in mildly choppy waters, a bald eagle soars to the tallest evergreen across the bay. Its majestic swooping holds her enthralled. Alternating between breaststroke, front crawl, and buoyancy, she captures the panorama from a unique vantage point to find herself immersed in time and space, now contemplating life. Reflective feelings hold fast the Serenade of the Seas, a new friend, and open, deep seas, keeping the connecting rope taut. A splash from her father’s dive breaks the magical spell. Climbing up the ladder, they sit in the boat laughing, talking of beaches, waterskiing, camping trips, and mom. He vaguely recalls details of family vacations, but with prompting and effort, remembers himself a young man, newly wed, sailing across the Atlantic Ocean with his beloved wife, then many years later a Caribbean cruise from Puerto Rico. Waters’ prominence in their family history pacifies both as they soak up the sun from boat and lake. Life happens… .so do father/daughter memories. His fading faster than she is ready to accept, at least they are making new ones that will stay with her but one day disappear for him, as the sun sets gradually, almost imperceptibly.

Front porch sitting and listening become an early morning routine at the lake house her brother owns, before enjoying a breakfast of fresh blueberries. Constant chirping rends the air as an overcast morning entices the ground cardinals out of their bush hidden nest. Bright red flashes by as the male flits from grass to tree to air in a game of chase with his yellow-chested, tawny, red-beaked mate. Bluebirds fly from wooded perches to electrical wires. Woodpeckers tapping trunks reverberate through the woods in rhythm with the singing hidden birds. Hawks silently circle overhead, close enough to see their yellow beaks. The Pearl Crescent butterfly enjoys nectar from several petals of the purple aster. Quickly alerted to an observer, the butterfly flies away.

A semi-transparent grey-white veil eerily hangs from the sky, settling symbolically upon her shoulders with the heaviness of iron weights, the ‘burden’ of love’s cross, threatening a deluge of internal rain. Physically ready and pleased to grant his desire to remain in South Carolina longer than ten days, knowing her brother looks forward to his time and enjoyment with their father, soothes aching hearts. He will happily stay until she returns for the journey back to Canada and the uncertainty of life’s happenings. Mental readiness lingers behind when thinking about driving 950 miles (1528 km) alone for the first time.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017 – “I left my brother’s home at 4:30 a.m. since I was awake before 4 and could not get back to sleep. A couple of times, while listening to my playlist and thinking, I looked over to the passenger seat because I felt something, like a presence, and I reached my hand to the seat as if touching Alan’s knee. Holding my hand there and lovingly moving it around the seat, blinking to stop any gush of teary emotion, I did not feel alone. I was thankful I was watched over, giving me peace. It was the first time I have ever driven so far by myself. I believe someone was praying for me.”

Wednesday, June 21 – “I have been back at my brother’s place for a couple of days now. Lots of boating, swimming, and paddleboarding, today for five hours non-stop. Paddleboarding from South Carolina to Tugaloo State Park in Georgia was a great break from anxiety over my father. The longest day of the year, summer solstice, the first day of summer! It was so sad to see my father crying and so upset about what he is going to do and where he is going to live!! I just think the whole situation is sad. Almost 66 years with the ‘his woman,’ as he calls her. Their 66th anniversary would have been celebrated on May 19, one month and one day after she passed away.”

Saturday, June 24 – “Up at 4 a.m. for the trip home with my father from South Carolina. Sad day, especially the last few hours. I am struggling with aloneness! I am concerned about my father. This trip has been good for him, but I worry about going back to an empty house. What should I do?”
Together, he and I, widow and widower, father/daughter comforting each other, growing into a new dimension. He loves the lake, the dog, the humidity, and the comfort of loving relationships. Crying, smiling, laughing, swimming and boating, walking, and talking, memories I hope will bring him peace, planted firmly in a part of his mind that recalls South Carolina, at least for this season of his life.

Life happens. . . so do choices, what am I to do now, gingerbread, waves, missing pieces, and father/daughter memories.

What do you do when the burdens you bear, on behalf of those you love, rest on your heart and shoulders like iron weights?

How has your relationship with your father changed over the years? Why?

Which memories bring a measure of both sadness and comfort?