Jeff Belden

I took my father out to lunch today, away from the nursing home where he lives. It was colder than a well digger's ass. I would've never heard that phrase inside the house I grew up in, but I learned it from one of my father's coworkers out in the oil field. I learned a lot of color from that man out there in the oilfield. I won't recount all of those pearls here.

With my father's slow decline into dementia, I never know how many more times we'll be able to go out to lunch on a very cold day, or go to a family reunion, or get to have what seems like a conversation over coffee.

So today, with a 5° F windchill factor, we went out for lunch. When we walked out the door, I expected him to have an entertaining reaction. Here's the video below.

"Brace yourself" I told him. That first blast of wind pretty well makes a person stiffen up. I've noticed when I ride my bicycle across slippery bridges, stiffening up is counterproductive. Staying soft is the way to be. You're a lot more likely to be able to react and respond to changes in your balance by staying soft.

I suppose that advice gets misapplied to life in general. "Brace yourself. Get ready for a slap in the face. Expect the worst. Be on your guard. Don't let anyone take advantage of you."

I don't think my dad ever told me "brace yourself". He expected the best from people. He knew the sparrows of the field were well taken care of. He saw himself as one of the sparrows.

I know that dementia will bring loss for both of us. I suppose I could brace myself for it, but it's a lot more enjoyable to stay soft and laugh with him and at myself.

Life is what happens when you have other plans. Brace yourself.

I used to host this blog at Posterous.com until they closed up shop. It was a free service, but couldn't sustain a business. I moved too slowly to move things from Posterous to a new host, so it's taken me a couple of years to string things back together. I was reading through the posts from 2011 around the time of my mother's death and my father's transition. I developed a renewed appreciation of how I benefitted from being reflective and putting my feelings and perspectives into words. 

I will add those old posts back into this hosting platform, adding the original dates to them. So if you think "I read this before", you may be right.

I also plan to post about how my Dad is doing nowadays, and what I'm learning as a son, a brother, a husband, and a family physician. Who knows what else I'll have to say.

My father and I drove to my hometown, and the place he raised a family for 60 years: St. Elmo, Illinois. We joined a small group that included his sister from Decatur, my sister from St. Louis area, and a few others (mostly local). I know my father will have a little more decline each year, but he still thrives in a social group. His sister said it's been that way ever since he was a little tyke. So, 2 hours into the picnic, when dad drifted off to the side of the group, I knew he didn't feel right. It was 98° F and sweltering. I had a headache, so I knew the party was over for the two of us.

We packed up (all of us) and headed to the local Daryl's Dine In to enjoy the air-conditioning and a mocha-swirl ice cream cone. Refreshed, we headed off to visit family on my mother's side for an hour, then headed to the town my grandparents met in long ago. The stories my dad tells me about long ago events are getting shaggier and less believable, since his memory has bigger gaps between the main features, and he fills in the gaps liberally and unconsciously (it's called "confabulation").

There was a grand thunderstorm brewing across the prairie skies, so we had a delightful light show as we enjoyed a shared peanut butter shake (another apocryphal story behind that choice of shake) at the local ice cream drive-in. We made it to the motel door just as the rain came.

Photos on Flickr.

[originally posted April 1 2012, 10:51 AM]

My father returned from military duty in post-war Japan and moved to St. Elmo to join his older brothers in the working world. There he met a lovely young woman named Iris who was working behind the soda fountain in the local drugstore. The first time they met, he asked her to make a peanut butter milkshake. It was the best milkshake ever. 

Because he has dementia, I hear some of these stories quite often and they have taken on iconic meaning. Every time he points to the high school graduation photo of my mother on his dresser, he reminds me of the peanut butter milkshake. 

So when we decided to visit his home in St. Elmo this weekend for what may be one of the last times in my father's life, we decided to keep it simple. We would visit his house, go to the cemetery to see my mother's grave, and invite his sister Alyce to come and meet with us there. That would be enough. 

My brother and sister and I had worried that taking dad from the nursing home back to visit his house would stir up his old desire to just move back Home Alone. We figured we would have to listen to pleadings that he knew how to drive, had dozens of neighbors who could help out, and just needed to get back home to Take Care of Things. 

It turns out our fears were unjustified. The weather was beautiful, we were all in a great mood, we ran into other family and friends, and enjoyed a delightful walk among the wildflowers at nearby Ballard Nature Center. He did not beg to stay home. 

Mid-afternoon, I had an idea. We stopped at the Altamont Dairy Bar for a commemorative peanut butter shake. Not wanting to spoil our supper (planned for the delightful Firefly Grill in Effingham), we asked for 6 straws and one shake. It was delicious. We hadn't really planned on the peanut butter shake. Not everyone wanted a sip. There was plenty to go around. It was even better for being shared. 

The day was a success in every way. And it was the second best milkshake ever.