I have long suspected that beauty can be found anywhere if one looks closely enough. But now I wonder if the same can be said for miracles, that they might exist even during the most trying of times. Perhaps even within a week such a this, one that finds my father lying in a hospital bed inches away from my mother, the original patient, who sits recovering from her heart attack.
Their saga began early Sunday morning when Mother awoke to a puzzling array of symptoms that included non-stop hiccups and a pain under an armpit. Hindered by deteriorating vision, my 86-year old father hurried glanced through the family medical guide before giving up in frustration.
“I said, ‘I think we should call 9-1-1’'” he tells me today as he relays the story with amazing detail. The precision seems especially remarkable in light of his increasing forgetfulness.
“Your mother,” he continues, “didn’t argue.” Dad pauses for effect. Mom is a stubborn German woman; she doesn’t often admit she needs help.
After placing his urgent phone call, my father then stopped to consider how the paramedics would get Mom out of the house. The front entry was the most direct route, yet it hadn’t been used as a port of entry or exit in years; it had come to function more like a side closet. Quickly he cleared stacks of Mother’s quilting fabrics away from the door, then pulled chairs out from what would become the pathway. Dad pulled on his trousers just as the medical team arrived.
Now this might not seem a miracle in and of itself, that an elderly man would have the presence of mind to do what was needed in order to help his wife of 50-some years. That he would remain calm under pressure and mentally navigate the steps required that would speed assistance. But my father struggles with dementia. He often relies on my mother to remind him when to bathe or to dress ... and how to.
“The medics were there within ten minutes.” He concludes the story for what may be the twentieth time in six days ... but I don’t mind.
Tonight the nursing staff moved Mother to a bigger room. After confessing to his own chest pains for the last few days, Dad has also been admitted to the hospital, and to her room, for observation. I think it’s the stress. A sister has a hunch that he is experiencing “sympathy” pains.
Tomorrow Dad will forget the tightness in his own chest while he again recites the story of my mother’s rescue without the slightest deviation. And I will marvel that his mental faculties were razor sharp when it was needed most. From where I sit, that's a miracle.
Contemplations on aging.
As I continue to discuss
My aging father has dementia. There ... I've said it. I don't like saying it. I especially dislike seeing it here on the screen in black and white. After all, dementia is not a black and white issue. It's colored with all kinds of emotion ... primarily fear and denial.
age I literally consider mid-life (
I plan to reach age 90 out of sheer spunk). Age spots increasingly dot my arms. And with my acceptance of Dad's health concerns comes the realization that the roles are changing between parent and child.
When I look at the continuity of human life, I see every generation as a bridge of sorts. Each generation transitions from one which grows wise but (dare I say it?) set in its ways ... to another that is filled with promise. We are the link between old traditions and new ideas ... and we have great opportunity to bring together the best of both.
“Everything old becomes new again.” 
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