My parents died many years ago. My father in 1982 at the age of 78 and my mother in<\/p>\n
1998 at the age of 84. Both deaths were relatively quick; my father in a nursing home<\/p>\n
and my mother at a hospital following a heart attack at my sister’s house. My memories<\/p>\n
of the their deaths and the events surrounded them have passed over time into the dark<\/p>\n
recesses of my mind leaving me with just the memories of the lives that they had led<\/p>\n
and our times together.<\/p>\n
My wife’s parents both were alive and lived in Florida for the past two years near her<\/p>\n
brother and his wife. They both lived in an Assisted living community, her father in a<\/p>\n
memory care unit following his third stroke and her mother in the same community but<\/p>\n
in a different apartment. Unfortunately her father was getting worse with Parkinson’s<\/p>\n
disease and dementia and the prospect of his surviving much longer was slim.<\/p>\n
The need to comfort my wife and her parents as they went through this long process<\/p>\n
preparing for the end brought up those black times and feelings that were filed away in<\/p>\n
the corners of mind.<\/p>\n
My wife and I were traveling to Massachusetts to visit my son recently. On the ferry ride<\/p>\n
to Connecticut we managed to sit next to a family of four. The youngest child kept<\/p>\n
calling out for his father’s attention, “Daddy, daddy, daddy”. Under any other<\/p>\n
circumstances this would not have bothered me. But hearing the child brought up the<\/p>\n
memory of the day after my father died. I am in my classroom trying to get things<\/p>\n
organized for my substitute as I’m about to take some days off, for the funeral and such.<\/p>\n
Helping and supporting me is my best friend and colleague; with him is his young son<\/p>\n
who is constantly calling out, “Daddy, daddy, daddy”. Back on the ferry I tell my wife<\/p>\n
that I can’t sit there anymore, with no explanation. I go outside on the deck still with the<\/p>\n
vision in my head of that classroom so long ago.<\/p>\n
As my wife’s father’s health deteriorated, we wait for a call from her brother that he has<\/p>\n
passed away. Each night I go to sleep the memories come back of my sister calling me<\/p>\n
up to tell me that my mother had been taken to the hospital and the follow-up call deep<\/p>\n
in the night that she had died. How my wife reacted, how I felt, even the actions I took<\/p>\n
the next day when I tried to go to work and was sent home by my fellow teachers<\/p>\n
become a vivid movie in my head. When the phone rings at three o’clock in the morning<\/p>\n
this past week, it all is real again. I become what my wife was to me those many years<\/p>\n
ago. As sad and comforting as I feel and act for her and her family, my thoughts are still<\/p>\n
on the two memories of my own.<\/p>\n
Black may not be my favorite color. For me it tends to reveal the darkness of things and<\/p>\n
in some cases the hopelessness of our thoughts. But it can also be the hidden depths<\/p>\n
where we save some of our memories that are not bad, but ones we choose to<\/p>\n
suppress. It may be necessary to open those black boxes periodically to remember that<\/p>\n
we did handle whatever occurred and survived. It may also hold the tools we need to<\/p>\n
help others add some lighter colors to the memories that they are forming to put in their<\/p>\n
own black boxes.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My parents died many years ago. My father in 1982 at the age of 78 and my mother in 1998 at the age of 84. Both deaths were relatively quick; my father in a nursing home and my mother at … Continue reading