roller coaster

I have always said I love roller coasters, mostly for the scream value. Truly! You get whipped around, up dizzying heights, dramatically down into narrow pits, around sharp bends into nothingness. And while all of that is going on, you can scream as loudly as you want. Quite a nice primal bit of escapism.

But lately I've been on a ride of a different sort, an emotionally exhausting roller coaster called Watching My Father Die. The highs are fabulous, life-affirming, but short-lived, like radioisotopes emitting high energy gamma rays for only nanoseconds. The lows are draining, frustrating, debilitating, with longer and longer lifespans. For this ride, screaming wouldn't even give the needed release to abate the desperation-tinged terror of watching a loved one lose their grip on both their own identity and that fragile thing called life.

Daddy called me this morning as I was leaving Columbia, wanting to know when I would be in Beaufort. "Throw on your clothes and come on! We're just waiting on you!" "Well, then, you're in luck 'cause I'm already dressed and on the highway!" "Okay then, we'll look for you about one o'clock." Upbeat, he and I and Bonnie looking forward to our upcoming lunch together. That was around 11am and I was on 26E, driving to 95 and down. He and Bonnie had been awake since 8:30 and he was feeling his oats!

By the time I arrived at 12:40pm, 20 minutes ahead of time (he always chides me for being late; "If you're on time, you're late!" he'll say with a grin), the oomph was already dissipating. He looked really good, new haircut, clean clothes, but his energy level was flagging. Still, he insisted that we go out and get some lunch, so that's what we did. First, he had to be transferred from the recliner to the rolling kitchen chair, then pushed out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where we then helped him transfer to the wheelchair. Out we went to the front porch, to the top of the stairs, where three of us helped him get down the stairs and into the Expedition, door already open at the foot of the stairs. And justthatfast, he was so exhausted that he had the shakes. Justthatfast. But still wanting to spend time with me and Bonnie.

We drove down to the waterfront park, but it was crowded, so we drove around a bit more, letting Daddy catch his breath while we all chatted about where to have lunch. Finally, we picked a destination, all got out and got inside... and Daddy had to go to the restroom. By the time he and Bonnie returned to the table, he was too wiped out to even eat. Still, we stayed there for about an hour, again letting him collect himself while she and I ate, talking about things around town. We get back to the vehicle, without incident, get back home, wait for Michael to return, then get Daddy back up the stairs to the waiting wheelchair.

He and I sit on the porch, enjoying the afternoon warmth and sunlight while he finishes a cigar. Fairly normal, right? Done many times in the past. Except he keeps dropping the cigar, his fingers just not able to maintain their grasp on the half-smoked cylinder. After about the twentieth drop, he's done. Done with smoking the cigar, done with sitting on the porch, done with being upright for the day. Michael and I move him back inside, pulling him in the wheelchair in the front door, to the kitchen, where we help him transfer to the smaller chair so he can be pulled into the bedroom, right next to the hospital bed brought by hospice, where we help him transfer into the bed... and pull up the rail so he won't fall out.

I stay a while longer, reading some favorite comics aloud, even doing different voices for the characters in Beetle Bailey, Wizard of Id, Foxtrot. I thought maybe he had fallen asleep, but when I stopped talking, he opened his eyes, so I would resume. I finally finished the readings and told him I was going to go on home. I finished up with a kiss and "See you next weekend." "I hope so." "Me, too."

Me, too.

And I drove home with the radio off, driving and crying, painting my shirtsleeves the color of tears. Eventually I pushed the button for some music: "Silent Lucidity" was just beginning. "Hush now, don't you cry/ Wipe away the teardrop from your eye/...it was all a bad dream/ spinning in your head/ your mind tricked you to feel the pain/ of someone close to you leaving the game of life." My angels, coming to my emotional rescue and using music for therapy. Taking a cue, I turned the radio off after the song, came home, put on Queensryche's "Empire" CD at high volume... and I'm back, tired, but with my head again clear and looking to the new day.