A FINE season....

Happily Masque chic in Albuquerque: Gorgeous masks designed by artist and friend Laurie Raskin

Two weeks ago our older neighbor was taken to the hospital (she's fine).  Tyler was so excited by all the trucks.  Myself, less so.

Many of us are in an awkward season, made all the more awkward by COVID: the last few chapters of our parents’ lives. 
 
We’ve been at this stage for years (if we’re honest) but we’ve discovered that because endings are unpleasant, it’s possible to exist in a daily fog of their denial, especially when we are geographically remote. 
 
It’s ironic: part of the American dream is to live a long and happy life.  And yet, age demands so much change, that more often that not, long does not equal happy.  My dad still struggles with being in Independent Living, surprised that he didn’t die in his beloved home overlooking the ocean. His parents died young (his dad in his 40s, mom in her 50s) so he quietly kept his own life expectancy fairly low.  And yet, here he is!
 
At the start of the pandemic last March, I began monthly zoom calls with Amherst friends.  Every quarter it seems, a classmate loses a parent. What can we really do or say?  Our words of sympathy and condolence seem insufficient, especially in this age of quarantined burial rites.  We listen, and empathize how we’re in this together.  From this vulnerability, we share a space of loss together, and it has added a depth to our calls. Classmates now joining our zoom for the first time pick up on our humor immediately, but don’t realize that the ease in our calls has emerged from sitting with each other’s sorrows over the past year too. 
 
It’s powerful to connect with friends from our past. I spent an hour on the phone with my cousin Carol this morning. Carol has a fantastic sense of humor, and we love to compare notes: joking about our parents’ driving skills and cleaning habits (possibly scarier than their driving). And then it hit us - we remembered the days that our mothers used to laugh together about OUR (teenage) driving and cleaning habits, and they would declare how it would be so much easier if they just did it for us, but they want to respect our independence ….on what day did the roles reverse?
 
The last time I was in Boston, we got together at a local joint for lunch: me and my parents and Carol and her Dad Marty (her mom already having passed away).  We had a great time, but I don’t recall specifically what we talked about. Like so often happens in life, I didn’t realize it would be my last time seeing Uncle Marty, as he passed away a month ago. But even if I had realized this, what would I have changed? What else could I have said or done? It’s all so impermanent.
 
My dad’s been in hospital this week after a fall (and he’s “FINE”!  Huge disclaimer: my parents will kill me for even mentioning this so PLEASE don’t call them if you know them. “The Youngs are private” as my Uncle Charlie reminded me. It is only recently that I have come to learn that vulnerability creates bonding, that the personal is relatable to others because we then share in our humanity. That is one of my lessons, not my parents, so call me instead of them if you want to check in :).  
 
I called Dad yesterday in the hospital, and the call went something like this, “Hey Dad – you OK?”
 “I’m FINE. This place is prison, and they’ve got to let me out. Not even the wardens are friendly here.”  
“So I suppose the food…” 
“Oh, I ate better in the army.”  (Good to see the sardonic humor in tact).
“What got you in there?” 
“Well, there was this gust of wind that caused me to slip on the ice, so I fell. What can’t they understand about that?” 
“It sounds like they’re running a battery of tests to make sure you’re OK”.  
“I’m FINE. I just wanna get out of here. Tell them that.”
 
(I hear Cousin Carol in my head, “You know there’s usually something our parents are not telling us, right?”)
 
Thinking of Carol and Marty, I feel like there’s so much more I want to know about Dad, to say to him, to have him say to me. But my dad has never been one to talk. 
 
In an effort, I mention that my book group just read Doris Kearns Goodwin’s wonderful book about Presidents Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt, FDR and LBJ.  I then ask him who is his favorite from the four. He has me repeat them, then replies, “I don’t know, why?” “Just curious.” I know my dad is a huge WWII buff.  He surprises me: “Lincoln, I guess.”  “Oh – I would have thought FDR!” I say.  He considers this, “Well, he was OK too.” And he then moves on to how the kids are in school.
 
Letting go. Of expectations, of others, of the past.  Missing both what was and what never was. Who we were and who we never could be.
Accepting. Where we are today. What is coming tomorrow.
 
Part of the shock of our parents’ death (even at a very old age) is that we become the old generation. Did we live to our fullest? Become our best selves? Love to capacity?  
​Gratefully, every day we each get a new chance.
 
(And Dad got discharged today from the hospital.  As he said, “I’m FINE”).