This summer, I’m saying goodbye to two men my family. My son is leaving for college and my father is losing his mind.
My stepmother called to tell me that my father was found on his knees in his hospital room. He’d forgotten he couldn’t walk. My son contemplates his first college semester, walking out on his own. And I stand between them, trying to find my footing.
Like I organized the come-and-go of toddler play dates, I now plan for my son’s return flight home at Christmas. I print his itinerary with sadness between the lines. And I have to remind myself that our kids do return — first from the neighbor’s and then from across the country. But a father’s mind doesn’t return; Alzheimer’s is a one-way ticket.
Although I’ve already done this college thing once before with my oldest son, saying goodbye never feels easy or the same. All three of my children are so different. It is said no sibling has the same parents, thus no parents have the same children. So as I say goodbye to my dark-haired son, having already hugged goodbye his older fair-haired brother, it all feels new — except for my watery eyes.
When my son hit ninth grade, suddenly I became really irritating, and by 10th grade I was intolerable. Those were the years that if one more parent told me what a great kid he was, I thought I’d hit them. But as he walks out our front door, he’s become a truly lovely man. We talk to each other now. I’ve learned to ask fewer questions and just listen and to never do the therapist thing of introducing the four-letter word — “feel” — into any conversation. At 18 years old, he’s become very low maintenance, and as long as there’s enough Arizona iced tea, bagels, turkey, ham and Doritos, he doesn’t seem to need me very much. I still steal myself up to his bedroom to gather dirty socks and T-shirts and stay long enough to throw his maroon comforter over soft sheets — like chocolate sprinkles on ice-cream, it’s a mother’s topping off.
In contrast, my dad has become very high maintenance. He was Papa Mike to my kids — a grandpa-like superhero who had root beer in the refrigerator, dollars in his pocket and a pool where they learned to dive.
And since he was successful when he had his wits about him, he is fortunate to have a care-giving army to support him during his final battle. But even his army can’t fight off the devastating effects of Alzheimer’s.
How ironic that a weak and deteriorating mind is such a powerful force affecting my father and all of us who lovingly bid him farewell. And like with our children, the goodbye never feels easy or practiced, but both sad and timely.
My son is beginning to clean out his closet, tossing away old sneakers, school papers and too-tight T-shirts. My father searches through darkened closets in his mind for lost memories. But my tender tears remind me of the “good” in goodbye.
For my son, the ride will only get better; for my father I hope it is a gentle downhill to the finish. And for myself, I’m certain a mother’s closet holds unfound treasures — once the children’s beds have been made one last time.
Priscilla Dann-Courtney of Boulder is a clinical psychologist.
