Day 60 - Dad's Guardian Angel

With enough time, the hand of a guardian angel becomes visible. This week I saw the hand of Dad's guardian angel. Someone else might refer to it as a silver lining. The name is less important than its impact.

When Mom died, Dad told us he lost half his memory. Mom is the one who had an address book tucked away in her mind. When she died we learned that she had been sharing her knowledge with new neighbors when they moved into the neighborhood. Shortly after newcomers moved in, Mom would visit and bring a list of who lived at which address in the neighborhood, including the names of the children and their ages. In another time and place, people might have worried about Mom not being concerned with their children's privacy. But it was a different time and a great place, so Mom's sharing the list of neighbors was well received by all.

Mom also had the family tree tucked away in her mind. She knew the names of who married our cousins and the names of all their children. She knew the names of the parents of all husbands and wives of the cousins. And she probably knew the birthdates of them all.

Mom also knew the names of nearly everyone the six of us kids went to school with. When my high school reunions came around, I knew that I could give Mom a list of those who hadn't been contacted and she would be able to cut it at least in half.

And then there are the people she knew in the church. Hundreds of people.

So when Dad said the loss of Mom meant the loss of half his memory, that was not an insubstantial statement.

We were all very pleased then that Dad reconnected with a friend from his youth, Dolores. They had dated in high school. And Dolores had lost her husband four years earlier. Dolores brought companionship to Dad, perhaps even purpose. For six years Dad and Dolores went to dinner, to movies, to plays, to Sons of Norway, to church together. Dolores moved from the small town she had lived for years to Moorhead to be closer to Dad, to end their long drives.

In the past two years, both Dolores and Dad faced health challenges. We children of Dad have worried what would happen to the other when one of them dies. They have been so close. Dolores began dialysis two years ago, and Dad ended up in a nursing home because of the amputation of the toes on one foot, followed by a stroke and a serious infection. Dad gave Dolores his car since he could no longer drive. Dad no longer wanted to leave the nursing home when we asked him if he wanted to go out for a meal. Dolores was not able to help Dad get into a car on her own. But she made the trip to see Dad faithfully every day.

Four months ago Dolores was finally able to move into an apartment in the same facility, making it much easier for them to spend time together. We were all pleased for both of them.

Since December, however, Dad has lost a lot more of his memory. He can remember his early life, including when he was born. But he can't remember how old he is. Some days he can't remember what happened to Mom or how many children he has. It has been painful to have to answer his questions each time he asked them, especially when it has meant telling him unpleasant news, such as that Mom or that Brian died. Because Dolores is a part of his early memories, Dad remembers her, although at times he seemed not to recall the closeness they enjoyed over the past eight years. When they were together, they both smiled broadly. I missed the opportunity to get a photograph of the two of them sharing a kiss while leaning over their wheelchairs when I was in Minnesota last week. I can still see it when I close my eyes.

I will never get another opportunity for that snapshot. On Wednesday we lost Dolores. That is the way my brother gave me the news, and she is a big loss to us. But the fact that we didn't lose her until six weeks after Dad lost his short-term memory is, I believe, the hand of Dad's guardian angel. Her loss will be less devastating to Dad now than it would have been just two months earlier. And that means we may have Dad for a bit longer, too.