According to the United Nations I am now officially considered OLD. Not young-ish old, or even kind of old.
Just old.
Ask Albania, Saint Kitts or Nevis! Hit up Madagascar, Senegal or one your favorite Republics and you will still get the same answer.
Over sixty? You’re old.
Though I do have to ponder, in relation to what?
My dad?
That’s right. My eighty-nine year old father who is old AF has become my new litmus test for age. He has just moved into a lovely OLD AGE home, or more accurately an assisted living facility, with a community of confused and wandering inmates who, like him, aren’t really sure why they are there to begin with. And honestly, he has never appeared more mentally young( or excited about dessert ).
Seeing him propped up in a chair in his new environ it is hard to believe that just a month ago he was rambling around his antique and orchid filled apartment domiciling with my mom, his beloved roommate of over sixty two years (minus a quick 18 month ‘detour’ he enjoyed with an enthusiastic aerobics instructor from our local YMCA).
It’s fine. Her classes sucked anyway.
But then came the flu, a little fall and a pesky cognitive test that just couldn’t hide his shiny new secret; Vascular Dementia.
So last week I was the one who got to sit across the table from him as he buckled up for the quiz of his lifetime. We are about to find out if he has any marbles left to lose or if knowing his address or birthday will get him out of this atrocious rehab and back into his own bed.
My sister and I get him ready. We dress him in cozy corduroys and his favorite Ralph Lauren plaid shirt and tell him this ‘meeting’ is his ticket out. We brush his hair and teeth, smooth his hands with calming lotion and reassure him that he’s “got this.”
The test begins. He concentrates hard to answer the questions coming at him like a child who wants that coveted gold star. He is respectful and succinct but I can see in his eyes that his thoughts are dancing outside of his grasp and he is frightened. I gently remind him of how to write a sentence and hand him the pen I have brought from his desk at home.
And then like a flash I see it.
He is in the process of trying to unearth something, a secret he needs to share or a memory that will give him access to who and what he used to be. Like a crack of light through filtering trees or a cloud that splits the sun, he digs deep for some sort of lifeline to pull out the jumble of past moments that lie within. My dad whispers something.
I lean in close to hear and a lifetime passes.
That is when I am reminded. My dad has the greenest of eyes, just like I do. Only about 2 percent of people in the world have naturally green eyes. Green eyes are a genetic mutation that results in low levels of melanin, though more melanin than in blue eyes. Green eyes don't actually have any color.
I look at him and smile. Our connection is scientific. He smiles back and says quietly;
“Help.”
Of course the sentence remains unwritten. He hangs his head and drops the pen. The window closes.
This ‘test’ , both written and spiritually, has led me to addressing a lot of things lately, especially the beauty and somewhat fickle nature of memory. The paradox of having too much stored data or maybe not enough and what that space in the middle must feel like. There is pain in remembering but most certainly there must be liberation in forgetting. I try and take comfort in this.
The Dodgers have just won the World series. I live in LA and it is a big fucking deal and it makes me want to tell my dad. He is a baseball encyclopedia, a statistician of the highest order with decades and decades of information roaming around his brain. But for now, it is elusive and rogue like a Night Heron or tail of light from a comet that will remain uncaught.
So Just before heading back to California I went for my last visit. I take him down to the lobby to chat and hang with his retirement home homies; Butch, Linda, and my most favorite Douglas, an incorrigible flirt who puts most Bumble dudes to shame.
Of course I have to re-introduce myself to all of them all over again, but I don’t mind. They are the most receptive crowd ever.
Butch, who is a real mover, quickly saddles up beside me. He pulls out his phone to watch the baseball game ( upside down ) and without looking up asks my dad;
“Is that your daughter?”
Indignation, pride and clarity dances across my father’s face.
“Fucking right she is!”
Window opens.
And life steps in.
It’s scientific.
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