Hitler, Humour, Mortality & Sameness

I probably shouldn't say this...

But I will. 

Dad sometimes walks behind Mum with his legs stiff, marching and his hand in a Hitler salute. Mum runs a tight ship or rather a clean ship. And Dad is pretty good or at least tries to be. He tries to maintain his humor, he was always a joker, though sometimes now it is misplaced. He folds his underwear beautifully and places them in the tea towel draw in the kitchen. He neatly places roasted almonds to bed in the jar of peanut butter and will tie any lose string around something with boy scout precision. He can be Daffy Duck when you want him to be. He will stealth over to the neighbour's place for a cigarette. He has never smoked. But he likes to be cheeky. He does his best while seeming to find the humor in it all. When asked to do something he would cheekily say "not my job" - this coming from a man who could not have done more for people his whole life. He was looking out over the balcony in February and said there's a fracture in that gumtree, its going to fall. No one took any notice. A week later the tree fell, just missing the house and taking out the fence and garden. My sister heard him joke "let me think, oh wait, I won't waste my time"... 

There is no doubt he is still in there. 

I am scared that when I see Dad he will not know my name. He will not. I know that. But words aren't all we have. There is something in his eyes and body language that speaks so loudly. He always embraces me with a warmth that only a father can have. I remember when I tucked him into bed many nights in February this year (while I was on carer's leave), he always thanked me for our day as I kissed him on the forehead and he always remembered something lovely that we did that day, or more commonly, the day before. He then asked me where I would sleep; each time, I would point down and say "Downstairs. But I will see you in the morning."

There was not a morning that February I didn't walk up those stairs for breakfast and hope to see Dad standing there, embrace me, and offer to cook me eggs or talk about taking the canoe for a paddle. Like everything was as it used to be. It never was though, no matter how hard I wished. Instead I would cook him eggs or help him pour his muesli if Mum hadn't already. But he would still give me a hug and I knew that he knew who I was. He would offer to get the spoons, and after sorting the entire cutlery draw, we would eventually sit to eat. Half way through he would get up to go and find an obscure unnecessary (but very necessary) object like a name badge from 1999 or a guitar pick. 

We often focus on what we lose from our loved ones who live with dementia. But what about what stays the same, like humour, kindness or morality. Or what stays but just needs to be unlocked by another language. Music, smell, location, faces in photographs (of which he took millions with his SLR Minolta) . 

I always wanted to be a writer or a poet. Dad started a journal in 1980 when my eldest sister Amy was born. He maintained his daily writings up until around the time they left the Dubbo farmlet for Kingscliff... about 5 years ago. How I wish to be a fly on those pages. Now that Dad's memories fade I am so glad that his thought, triumph, fear and simple ordinariness belongs to those pages. How I wish to know how Dad rawly experienced fatherhood, marriage, work, home and social worlds but what betrayal I would feel. Would he want this? I could ask him. But would it be fair. 

I did read his diary once. I was probably in his office nicking gold coins from his jar of loose change. My siblings and I would often end up in there... coyly asking what the other was doing there. A $2 coin. Pure gold in the 90s. Anyway, when I was in year 12 I read a page of Dad's diary - open in his desk. As I had finished half of year 12 in year 11 I had a lot of free periods and often a car. I spent a lot of time eating those nasty (but delicious) crab/seafood (😐) sticks from the take away shop or at Pasta Spud with Harley and Fanny, eating too many potatoes and Back 'o Bourke Cola. But Dad was worried that I was 'throwing in the towel' so close to the end of year 12. I felt so bad that I made him feel like this. I was a little free spirited and liked to procrastinate a lot but I never wanted to or intended to jeopardise my HSC. I felt like I was letting him down. And then I felt bad that I had read his diary. 

The HSC thing worked out fine. Better than fine, for a romantic dreamer who just wanted to write love poems. Dad was my moral compass. Mum shared the same compass, though perhaps her compass had 720° - a bit too accurate for the frequency of a 17 year old. A morality too good.

One weekend Mum and Dad went out of town. I had stayed at home alone on numerous occasions as a teenager... however at the age of 17 something had clearly changed. I could not be trusted. They got me babysitter.* They paid my sister's friend to look after me and keep me out of mischief. I lost my virginity that weekend. To a boy I loved. A boy who meant the world to me. A boy who I had discussed said activity with for months. He left for university that next week and I went off to Nerd School (National Youth Science Forum) for the Summer. It was love. But then it ended. It would nearly be another 12 months before I engaged in such debauchery again. I so desperately wanted my parents to know that such experiences were something I held close to my heart. But it wasn't something we ever talked about. 

I had good, supportive, fun, innocent friends. We didn't push the mould; but for what was expected of teenagers. I was a romantic who underlined passages in books for boys as gifts, not wandering the streets. I was more interested in quoting Thoreau, R Browning, Peter Goldsworthy, David Malouf or Dylan Thomas in love letters. There seemed to be some communication breakdown. Mum and Dad had done good. But I seemed to be cause for concern. But they raised me right. Putting what was good and right before self interest. I'm not sure if this is the secret to 'getting ahead' in the 'rat race' but it's not a bad way to be. 

When I was in primary school, Dad would sometimes catch the school bus home (we lived out of town of a 25 acre property). Maybe we only had one car...I would sit next to him up the front - the front of Barry's Big Blue Bus. I would always put the stickers I got at school in the top pocket of my tunic and then pull them out to show Dad. He would then put them in my achievement award folder. With the date. I seemed to be getting a lot of stickers this week! He noticed. I admittted I had stolen a roll of stickers from school (what power these held in the 90s). Dad took me to class in the morning so I could confess and apologise to the teacher. Mrs May I think. Dad was always gentle and kind in his lessons. He guided me well. And still does today even if he doesn't know it.

On the night of my 34th birthday I was texting on our family WhatsApp group and was sent pictures of Dad commencing the first day of his 2 week trial in a residential facility. It ripped my heart out. I knew it was coming up but didnt realise the time had come so soon. I hope it's a good experience but I hope we can find ways to keep him home for longer. I can't wait to spend a few months with him at home soon. He's just beautiful. I love him and miss him. He loves icecream. Lots of icecream. I look forward to his embrace at the end of this 2600 mile journey.

"Can I know that mine was a foolish, innocent world, a world of delustion and feeling and ridiculous dreams - a world of music - and still love it? Endlessly, effortlessly"

-- Maestro, Peter Goldsworthy 

* reference for babysitter on request.

P.s. a massive thank you to everyone who has supported us along this journey. It means the world to us. Its gorgeous but bloody hard. My face is growing back from the wind and freeze burn.

Stay safe.

J x