May 29th, 2010: It All Comes Tumbling Down

There are, in my experience, only a few times in life when something so powerful happens that it immediately snaps you out of your reality and brings you instantly into the present. This evening, one of those singular events happened. Then, a few hours later, another one occurred. That's right Life fans: it was a double-header of mind-jarring reality shifts.


Let's get ready bummmmmmmmmmmmble......!


Part one occurred while we were out for dinner at some incredibly mediocre restaurant chain. I've got my niece on my lap playing with my iPad. And while I'm showing her some awesome Pixar app, I hear a "thump", followed by a bunch of patrons in the restaurant gasping and then Mom starting to yell.


Dad has fallen down.


He's on the floor - limbs sprawled out - and seems absolutely confused as to how he's gotten there. Patrons get up to offer assistance. My brother rushes over. So does his wife's family. Others start calling 911. Dad's knee is bleeding. I've got my niece on my lap and, because she's so engrossed with the Pixar app, I figure: it's better to just keep her occupied and allow the others can attend to Dad. Which they do. And so, helpless, I just watch. A few people help lift him up and get him in a chair. The "restaurant" staff bring over some ice and a band-aid. They look concerned... the fear-of-possible-lawsuit concern.


And Mom - embarrassed, exasperated, concerned, alarmed - begins yelling at Dad. It's not intentional. It's not like she doesn't love Dad. She does. Without question. Hell, she's given up her life to care for him. But in that moment... In that moment, every fear she's ever had about Dad's progressive illness and abilities, every secret prayer she uttered - that, please, God: let no one really notice just how bad Dad's condition really is - all of that rises to the surface and blurts out of her mouth. And, instead of soothing him, she shames and humiliates him.


It's not her finest moment. But I understand. I've been caring for both of them for four days now and I understand.


Mom cleans up Dad's wound. Someone offers to call an ambulance. People are staring at the old, disoriented man now seated in the chair in the middle of the restaurant who just fell down. They have no idea that he's only sixty-seven years old. How could they? How could they know what this man was like in his prime? How could they see how he would carry us on his back, sometimes two at a time? How could they know that he would dig up an entire garden, tilling the soil before planting carrots, beans, tomatoes and more? How would they have any idea that - for years - he would rise at 5:15am in order to get to the hospital by 6am to see his patients for his first rounds and not return home until 6pm to have dinner with his family. They couldn't know that. They couldn't see that. Instead, they just see a frail, old man who needs help.


We calmly leave the restaurant as people escort us out with their stares and concern. Mom alternates between fuming silently and shaming Dad. It's not a pleasant situation as I drive them both to my brother's house. But later, while Mom's upstairs helping to put her grand daughter to sleep, I sit with Dad downstairs. It is one of the only moments so far when just the two of us have had some time together. I ask him how he's feeling. And that's when part two of the double-header happens.


"Embarrassed," he says. "Mom yelled at me."


"I know, Dad. I'm sorry. Mom probably didn't mean it like that."


"I don't want to be a burden," Dad says and starts to cry. "I don't want to be a burden on the family..."


How do you respond to your father when he admits, defeated, that he doesn't want to burden the family he helped to create, raise and educate? I went to my Dad and put my arm around him. I gave him a kiss on his head and I cried with him. And then I lied to his face. "You're not a burden, Dad," I said and I meant it. I really did. Because, to me, falling down one time in a restaurant isn't being a burden. It's an accident.


But I knew better. And so did Dad. And at this stage of his disease, he requires help sitting down and help getting up; he requires help getting into and out of his clothes; he sometimes requires help wiping his ass, cutting his food and frequently understanding what's going on around him. So, yes: that makes him a burden right now.


And it made me a liar. Kind of. But not really. But kind of.


After we'd cried, after I'd re-dressed his wound, I went upstairs and found Mom. I pulled her aside and told her, "Dad's crying. He's very upset about falling down in public and that you raised your voice at him." She begin to protest but I cut her off.


"What you did wasn't nice. At the exact moment when Dad needed your love and support, you shamed and humiliated him in public. Now go downstairs, tell Dad that you love him and wrap your arms around him, Mom. Give him the love he deserves. He'd made a mistake. He didn't fall down intentionally to hurt your feelings. Right now, he needs your support."


She looked at me, looked away for a moment and then walked downstairs to do exactly as I'd requested. And so it goes. We all fall down. Most of us just get back up again. But for those around us who cannot, we try to extend a hand. But sometimes, we forget. And in those moments, it's nice to know that we have others around us to help remember that we're not alone, that we depend on others all day, every day, to help us navigate and survive.


In the end, despite our best efforts, it all comes tumbling down anyway. It's a simple and beautiful truth that unites us all... even if we actively try to forget it.