I don’t know how some people cope
with pain. Or with separation. Or with sickness. Or with suffering. Or with
saying goodbye. Or - God forbid - with all of those things simultaneously. I
just don’t know. I mostly just weep when I need to, sometimes out loud. And I
did a lot of that today.
I got up and wept. I packed up my
clothes up and wept. I watched my Dad eat breakfast and not talk to me because
he was too fucking occupied with Good Morning America and wept. I watched Mom
make her kreplach and explain the recipe to me and I wept as I scanned the
original, written in her handwriting, an unbroken chain of Jewish food being
passed down from one generation to another.
On the one hand, I don't know
what the big deal is. I've been home to visit many times before. All I’m doing
is going back to my own life, the same as I've done countless times before. All
I’m doing is returning to the life I’ve built for myself during the past
eighteen years in Los Angeles. All I’m doing is simply going back to what I
left six weeks ago. That was part of the deal, so my return is totally
expected.
On the other hand, I just don’t
WANT to. After eighteen years of living 2500 miles away so that I could form
some sense of self without being cramped, micro-managed or judged, I suddenly
find myself wanting to stay closer to my parents so that I can help them, be
there for them and care for them… and maybe fix a few more things.
But as the day wore on, despite
my weeping, I understood that there would be no fixing an unfixable situation:
I cannot cure Mom’s cancer, I cannot cure Dad’s Lewy Body Dementia, I can’t
even cure the ways in which their relationship is still dysfunctional. All I
can do — all any of us can ever do — is to simply help where and when we can: to
fix things that can be mended, to be useful, to volunteer, to lead by example,
to promote patience and to try to demonstrate a better way. And these are
things that I’ve done many times over on this trip. And I'm proud of that in a
very deep way because I did so in the face of people who deeply hurt me
previously.
This means that the only real
metric I have for determining how I feel about this trip is... how I feel about
this trip. And how I feel is accomplished. I helped re-arrange the living
room furniture for both Mom and Dad in the likely event that they’ll need more
room for navigating; I cleaned out the basement and created a very nice room
for any aide that would need to live with Mom and Dad on a more full-time basis;
I secured aides for them for the weekends when they go down the shore this
summer; I began difficult conversations with Mom and Dad about nursing homes,
physical abilities and future needs; I suggested that Mom use her pot brownies
when her more toxic medications weren’t working. Then, once she got use to the
idea, we both got high together and saw Toy Story 3; I cooked and cleaned for
them most evenings; I chauffeured them back and forth to New Jersey no less
than four times; I took them out for the occasional fabulous meal; I ran errands
for them; I bathed Dad, I wiped his ass, I picked him up when he fell, I
dressed and undressed him, and I tucked him into bed most nights; I sat with
Mom at the hospital for all of her appointments and exams and infusions; and I
tried - whenever possible - to help them talk to one another and act as a kind
of facilitator or counselor. Anything I could do to keep a dialogue going
between the two of them.
With Mom blaming her cancer on
Dad and with Dad unwilling or unable to tell Mom how he feels for fear of
reprisal, it was difficult to get them to talk to one another. Mom would want
to walk away (and sometimes did) and Dad would shut down and fall asleep, half
out of manipulation, half out of sheer emotional fatigue. And yet...
There’s the lingering feeling - however
wrong it may be - that I could’ve done more. I wish I could have somehow fixed
their bad relationship just by being there and being me which, of course, is
absurd. I can’t judge this trip by whether or not Mom’s cancer is any better
today than it was six weeks ago. Or by whether or not Dad's physical and
cognitive abilities have changed. Or by how much better Mom and Dad are
treating one another. Because those were never things in my control to begin
with. Because after my efforts, after I try to make a difference in the ways
which I can… in the end, I must let go and simply allow the universe to work
its course.
So I ended as I’d begun — by just
doing more of what I’d come to do: I glued foam bumpers on the stairway leading
down to the basement so no one would bump their head; I took Dad over to his
occupational therapy and spoke with his therapist there about private, at-home
lessons to focus on his daily essentials or ADL’s: specifically dressing and
undressing himself; and I spoke with Mom about the past six weeks. She was, she
said, very grateful for all I’d done. When I’d tried to explain to her the
absurdity of wanting to make her cancer go away, she just cried with me and
told me how absurd that was. We cried together, but she emphasized how much I
got done.
When Dad got home, we sat for a
few minutes and talked. I know he knew that today was my last day but his
emotions didn’t seem to register that today was any different than any other
day. Perhaps, for him, it wasn’t. After all, his life is so structured and
managed and manipulated because of his constant need for assistance that today
probably wasn’t all that
different. But for me it was. And when I tucked him in for his nap, I told him
that I loved him and that I’d see him soon, probably in a few months, when I
come back home for the Jewish holidays. Even as I said the words “in two
months” it just seemed like an eternity to me. But Dad was out within seconds,
body twitching and eyes moving beneath his closed lids and so what might have
been a teary goodbye was more like any other moment with him while I was at
home: simple, brief and somewhat detached. Perhaps it’s better that way, given
the fact that I’d just cried hysterically on his chest only a few evenings
previously.
But when it was time to leave, I
couldn’t really hold it together. I began crying even just to say “thank you”
to Frederick, the man from Ghana who is my father’s aide and who clearly likes
him a lot and treats him with patience and gentleness. Even to say goodbye to
him, I cried. Because I know that - to a large extent - Dad’s day-to-day care
is in his hands. Such is modern life: a man I barely know from another country
is my Dad’s protector and keeper. And now, he'll be working even more hours so
that Mom can really focus on healing the best that she can.
And by the time I got to say
goodbye to Mom in the foyer, I leaned over to give her a hug and tell her that
I love her and that it was hard for me to go. She was incredibly frail and
small in my arms. I felt like a giant stooping down to hug a child. Only it was
my Mother. And we cried together, me more than her. She cried too but put on a
brave face as she always does. Frederick helped me outside with my bags and I
walked to the car with Mom and Tanya. After the car was loaded, I gave Mom one
last goodbye.
“Take care of Dad,” I said. I
meant it as a favor. I meant it as a deep and personal favor: to please stop
bickering and to love him no matter what. And to give him that consideration
and care that any devoted husband would want and need from his wife after forty-three
years of marriage. She laughed out loud, almost choking on her gum.
“I can’t help but laugh,” she
said, “Because I have no choice.” She’d misunderstood me so vastly that I
didn’t bother to explain myself. So instead I simply said:
“Take care of yourself too, Mom:
that’s the other part of the equation. Take care of Dad but you have to take
care of yourself, ok?”
She nodded her head, gave me a
hug and walked inside. I got in the car and closed the door. Tanya drove me to
the airport and provided me with a packed lunch and some much needed
conversation to help me center myself and prepare to fly home.
And now here I am, at 36,000
feet. Outside the window to my left, the sun has gone down and a brilliant
stripe of deep red and orange is layered onto the blackness of the earth below
me. Lights from the cities we fly over appear like stars on the ground as we
over cross them, and above, the sky is an impossible and deep blue.
In about an hour, we’ll land in
Los Angeles and my friend Julie will pick me up and take me to my car in the
Palisades where my other friend Chris has kept it for me. One network of
friends sees me off; another greets me.
Tonight, I will sleep in my own
bed for the first time in six weeks along with my cats. And tomorrow... well, I
don’t want to think about tomorrow just now. Or unpacking. Or resuming my life,
my responsibilities or my job. Right now, I just want to enjoy these last
few minutes of my trip and remind myself not just of what I’ve done, but how
I’ve done it: not perfectly, not without losing my patience or temper at
points, but with as much honor, humility, kindness and patience as I could give
the two people who raised me, fed me and educated me.
I went home to honor my Mother
and Father and, by and large, I succeeded.
