These days I’m living a dream. Not your typical fantasy for me tho. Course not. Nah, I’m taking the long slow boat to Valhalla with my in-laws Vernal and Monica. The journey is a surreal escape from the cares of the present, because in the four years or so he’s come to live with us, Dad (Vernie) has changed many of my views on most everything. But let’s hold off a politicians minute there while I speak about Mon.
Now there’s a personality. Monica is one of those people who’s tone is always positive. She was upbeat when I was courting her daughter. She remained genial, even supportive, when later she realized my prospects were few, and my options maybe fewer. She always kept a smile and kind word for me. Indeed this is what she does for almost everyone she comes into contact with. Actually, I’m particularly grateful for that trait because she passed it to her daughter. My wife.
Mons has been diagnosed with something. I think it’s the Big C, given the sombre mien and the increasing frequency of telephone calls from family. I drift on the periphery, not knowing what to say, and almost certain that when I do it will be the wrong thing. Actually I get to speak with Monica everyday, because I’m usually near the MagicJack when it rings. She still has an upbeat tone, but the timbre is failing. Something’s missing. It’s sorta like the noise you do not get when you hit a tuned brass gong with a lighter mallet. I play her game at those times; “Hey mom, what you cooking?” or something. And then I quickly pass the phone over. Even before she completes her contribution to the farce.
Mon does not live with us. So there is the physical separation for her from Vernie, her husband, my father-in-law, who does. Vernie has acute dementia. So his brain is screwed. He endures too a rapid progression of Parkinson’s, so the ability to use the hands is lost. To put all that in perspective; If you cannot remember where you put it, and then you cannot quite get around to holding it, you’re screwed. I take care of Vernie during the days. He’s dying, as is his wife. But his is the long slow boatride which consumes me.
I expect Mons will hit the trail first. Not that anyone in our little circle will speak of it. I expect when it comes a few things will change around here. Maybe my share of the smiles from Mons daughter will diminish - not that I really cultivate them what with my slew of follies.
I hope that particular drought of sunshine will be short. These days I look at Vernie with the same eyes I lay on my pets. Thinking of him I remain perversely piqued that life has taken the one turn I never expected, wanted, nor prepared myself for. And yet it’s all strangely very interesting in spite of the obvious loss of some freedoms.
Vernie has brought me to terms with my own mortality but now I think it’s a gift. If so it’s one I certainly do not deserve given my lifelong aversion to parenting, procreation, or the business of passing.
Vernie has taught me, inadvertently for sure, to caregive. It was something I had long thought disabled in my DNA. Vernie has taught me to see the world through the eye’s of other people.
Again, it was something that mattered little to me. Vernie may outlive me but it’s an outcome I‘m dreading. Not at all. Because in the time he’s given us I see new doors opening, where once for me there were only walls.