That Old Face
Thanks, Jette, Chip and esteemed panel. This entry is a Holidailies “Best of…”
I miss my dad. I miss him more than I miss my mom. I’m not sure why. It’s not because I favored one over the other. I’m sure I do but it might be more about that gender identification thing. I *am* my mother in many ways, some really cringingly bad ways. I see her looking at me in the mirror, so she is with me most of the time. I do miss our phone calls the most.
But my dad - it’s very odd. What I miss about him is not so much his personality, the memories, the jokes… what I miss is the very oldness of him. He lived long enough to begin having dementia. It’s understandable, and it alters my feelings and memories of him NOT ONE WHIT. It added something to him, I think. He often had that Old Man Mona Lisa smile. I saw that face on a tv show tonight - some movie with a very very old man dancing with his daughter in the nursing home he lived in.
I recognized the look. The relaxed lips caught in a pleasant line, the uncomplicated brow, the slightly glassy but sweet eyes that sometimes look at you in polite vacancy through the ever-thickening lenses, rather than having that inner light of recognition. I could watch my dad go in and out of recognition of his surroundings. Sometimes he was there, in his tv room, watching the news; and sometimes, he was sitting in some generic house waiting for a ride home.
Maybe I mirrored that look to him in our last days together. I wanted to show him the pure joy I felt with his each continued breath on the planet, with each tiny surprise/gift of a report from the doctor, without pressuring him to endure anything for too long if it was unendurable. I wanted it all to be ok with him, whatever he wanted. But of course I wanted him to fight, to stay, to live - which he did for a few more weeks - long enough to see all of his grandchildren and children, another photo opp, another christmas. More chocolate.
His brain was in a mini-war. A recent unpleasantness. A civil action. A coup. “Old man, it’s time to check out,” said the brain. “Well, alrighty, but there’s this pretty woman here, and I think I know her. She looks an awful lot like my wife who died. And she’s brought chocolates with her.”
Of course when I borrowed his warm coat to wear to the hospital, and put on the scarf that I found in the pocket, he instantly recognized it and pursed his lips in mock annoyance. “You’ve borrowed my coat, young lady. Without asking.” And then, after a while, the thin veil of dementia would settle back down, and he’d be that sweet old man again, admiring the pretty girl in the very stylish man’s coat. “You’re very pretty,” he would say. “I love you,” I would say. “Well, I love you too!” he replied, a little bashful and completely chuffed.
When I think of him, I usually see him in his robust Cary Grant phase. Shirtless, white tennis shorts, topsiders all grotty from the lake. Aviator sunglasses, silver hair. Barking orders at me about the sheet and the sail, cracking jokes and making up words, like “enficklement.” We’re on Lake Travis, and it’s a Wednesday and it’s just the two of us with acres of blue water, blue sky and hot sunshine.
But sometimes when I see him in my mind’s eye, I see the very old face, pleasant and satisfied. He’s had it all. Everything. And it was all pretty good. I crave seeing that old face again. I look for him in crowds - at restaurants, hospitals, stores, television. I didn’t get to know that old face well enough. To see it again, just once. That’s what I want for Christmas.
(Though I gave away all his shoes a week after he died, after I double and triple confirmed for myself that he wouldn’t need them, I kept the old coat. If it gets really cold in Dallas this winter, I will wear it. And I know it will smell like him.)
December 6th, 2007 at 9:31 am
[...] last entry was tagged as a “Best of Holidailies.” I’m chuffed - it’s satisfying to [...]