Something has been leering at me through my kitchen window for the last few days. It sits in my back yard and beckons to my thoughts every time it falls within my line of vision. The last time it caught my attention was at 2:30 this morning, when I got out of bed and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. There it was, its light color visible just outside the window despite the moonless night. I went back to bed.
It is now 3:15 AM, and I am back out of bed, sitting in my living room, writing my thoughts on a piece of paper. The significance of the view out my kitchen window passed from my subconscious to my conscious mind about the time I tried to go back to sleep. Forty minutes later, it was evident that sleep would come after I had committed my thinking to paper.
The object that leers at me from the back yard is a yard swing, a plain and simple bench swing suspended from an A frame, the likes of which can be procured from the garden department at any Wal-Mart or Target in the United States. Purchased in March of this year, it was a birthday gift for Marci, requested by her not only because she knew she would enjoy having it but also because it occurred to her that my parents, particularly my father, might enjoy it. She was correct in that assessment, and my father whiled away many hours on that swing.
We are right now in the midst of those months which, in Florida, are unpleasant for sitting outside; so the swing has a cover over it and has not recently been used. But I know exactly when I last sat on that swing. It was May 16th of this year, beginning at about 8:00 PM.
That evening, I sat on the swing with my father, the two of us talking for about 20 minutes. I confess that it was motives other than a pleasant evening and a good conversation that had induced me to bring my dad out to the swing. The conversation was nonsensical; neither of us understood much of what the other said. The evening ambiance was not perfect either. It was a bit too warm, with mosquitoes a bit too plentiful.
Dad had, a few days previous, contracted a stomach virus, and though the symptoms seemed to have subsided, he had not resumed eating or drinking. All efforts to encourage him to take nourishment had failed, and it seemed that the time to take him to the emergency room was upon us. On consideration of the hassle and discomfort of spending a night in the ER, we redoubled our efforts, but these endeavors only caused him to become agitated.
I took him out to the swing that evening because I thought that it might be helpful if we backed off for a while to let his agitation subside. Maybe, if we got him relaxed, he might ingest something, saving us the hassle of an ER encounter.
Eventually, I decided that enough time had been spent on the swing, and we needed to go inside. The mosquitoes were coming around in ever increasing density as the last vestiges of daylight faded. Mosquitoes generally leave me alone, but they had always pursued my father most rapaciously. He was hard enough to manage; I reasoned that he would be more difficult if he was itching.
My recollection is that he did not want to go in, and it took some coaxing to get him into the house (along with a collection of mosquitoes that took advantage of the opportunity afforded them them by his unhurried shuffle). I finally did get him back inside, however, and I got him seated at the dining room table. Still he refused sustenance, sealing his mouth tightly, refusing food, refusing water, refusing to talk.
Had I known then what I know now, I might not have been so anxious to go inside from the yard swing that evening, for that conversation in the fading daylight, that nonsensical, mundane, mosquito-riddled conversation, was the last conversation my father and I would have in this life.
I do not wish my reader to think that I am struggling with regret that I missed a significant moment... that I was thinking about mosquitoes while my father passed into eternity... that what I thought was a routine hassle as an Alzheimer's caregiver was actually the best opportunity remaining to me for some sort of meaningful interaction. Yes, I would have behaved differently had I known what I now know, but my memory of those twenty minutes on the swing serve me as an inspiration, not a regret.
Those twenty minutes are a great reminder that sometimes really significant moments come disguised as mundane ones. Seconds and minutes and hours that originally seem boring or trite may, with the application of more time, prove to have been life-changing. I find this inspirational, for it motivates me to really live in each of the moments I have been given.
While I do not fault people for trying to better their circumstances, I think it is commonplace for people, when confronted with moments not of their choosing, to want to manufacture different moments, rather than just live the experiences God has brought to them. God brought Alzheimer's Disease to my house, with all its quirky little moments. They were not the moments I wanted with my father, but they were still moments granted by the kind hand of a heavenly father who knows what he is doing. And whether or not I really understood each moment as it happened, I am so glad that I lived... really truly lived... in those moments.
No comments:
Post a Comment