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Colleague,
Thanks to Kathy Kelly from Orchard Cove for forwarding this treasure. The article, "Glimpsing the Father Who Was," is a moving essay about a moment in time when the writer's father briefly came out of his "serious curmudgeonliness" and "found the key to a long-forgotten treasure chest untouched by time...." To read the short essay in its entirety, click here. Some selected excerpts are below.
Watching my widowed father age as he neared 90 was like watching an old photo fade: every time I saw him, he was a little less himself. Day by day, Leo, a humanist, a devoted Central Park South dentist, a lover of opera, golf and political debate, shriveled into a generic old man, irascible and self-absorbed. Though Prozac brought him back from serious curmudgeonliness - "You call this soup hot? What are you, an idiot?" - he remained a poor facsimile of the person he had been. I pictured his mind as a sieve through which bits kept dropping out.
This image was corrected one spring, when my father made his yearly pilgrimage to Boston, where I live, to consult an arrhythmia specialist. The specialist did nothing tangible for what was a fairly benign problem, but over time the annual checkup took on life-or-death significance. "Can you promise me five more good years?" Leo always asked the doctor. "That's all I want." The five years were never consumed.
Instead, looking out through the shining eyes of the 91-year-old who came to the door was someone I had not seen in a very long time. "Come in, come in! I'm so happy to see you!" he sang out, as if it had been months, even years since our last meeting. And perhaps it had.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am to have missed the graduation," he said. I could barely believe my ears. This was the sort of statement - polite, appropriate, focused outside himself - that had been beyond Leo's reach for years. He showered affection on us all and dismissed his own disastrous day as "not worth talking about," insisting instead on hearing all about the ceremony.
The next morning, looking in his eye, I saw that the disconnected 91-year-old was back. For good. Still, fleeting recoveries like my father's - reported anecdotally but little understood - are a gift. Those who had seemed to be living only in our memories return, suspending the paradox that even when their essential selves seem to have slipped away, our feelings about them remain unchanged.
By the way, the one who tells the story is Elizabeth Roper Marcus, an architect and writer who is spending more of her precious time writing these days.
Good wishes to all,
Neil Beresin
Program Manager
COLLAGE, The Art & Science of Healthy Aging
An Integrated Assessment Tool and Person-centered Process for Improving Healthy Aging Outcomes
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