He was 84. His hair was starting to thin, but he still had more than many men half his age. Up until the age of 82, he had ridden his motorcycle to work every day. If there was anything he loved more than a good joke, a good meal, or an ice cold beer – it had to be spending time with his grandkids.

To me, he was immortal. At the time, the only way I would ever think of his age was to brag about him to myself: Look at him! 84! He still climbs up onto the roof at my brother’s house to make repairs, and does more in a day than I do in a week! It never occurred to me that he would ever not be there. My father would always be there.

In the summer of 1987, I drove up to Lewiston with a friend who was interested in buying my father’s motorcycle. My dad had taken a spill a few years before, he had executed a very tight u-turn at the top of a hill, and when he’d put his foot down because he’d lost momentum while making such a tight turn, his foot had ended up on the lower side of the hill, and the weight of the bike made him lose his balance. He attributed the fall to his age (I attributed it to the hill,) and he decided that his motorcycle days were over.

We’d made a date to meet him at his garage. Like my dad “ it seemed that the garage had always been there. He’d built it by hand about a decade before I was born. It still stands today, on the shores of the mighty Androscoggin River. We pulled into the yard of the garage, and I spotted his car. Everything was strangely quiet – no one else was around. The door to the garage was still closed, nothing stirred. It took me a moment to notice that my father was still in his car, with his head resting against the steering wheel, unmoving. I could feel a squeezing building up in my chest as I nearly flew the short distance to his car. I opened his door with my heart in my throat – and he looked up, smiled at me, and got out of the car, looking as if nothing at all had been wrong.

“Dad! You scared me! Are you okay?”

He smiled wryly and replied that he’d just been a bit dizzy, and had decided to rest for a few minutes. He cocked his head, peering at me over the top his glasses, and with the same crooked smile, he added: “The old man isn’t going to live forever, you know!”

I felt a physical jolt, as if I’d been punched. Just then, my friend came over to us, and began to ask my father about the motorcycle. With his words still ringing in my ears, I pretended that something in the distance caught my eye and I walked away, leaving them talking about the bike. I was grateful for the opportunity to wander off until I could gain control over the suffocating ache in my throat, and the tears which insisted on filling my eyes, in spite of my every effort to maintain my composure.

Three months later, the days were growing shorter, the nights were becoming quite cool. We were headed into another dreary, cold Maine autumn.

For once, I didn’t feel the fall dreariness dragging me down into the inevitable winter doldrums. I was light hearted, and joyful! It was October 1st, and my parents had just moved down from Lewiston to be near my brothers and I. With no forethought, we’d all managed to end up within a few minutes of each other in this tiny southern Maine town; it was good to finally have the family together again!

We’d spent the day helping them move into their little apartment, and once home for the evening, I was planning the remainder of my week. Dad had already made his meal requests: spaghetti and beef stew – soon please!

“My pleasure Dad!”

My pleasant reverie was interrupted by my dear friend Joanie, as she burst through the door without knocking. Her face was pale, and she looked terrible! I came up out of my chair and rushed over to her – I was certain that something terrible had happened.

All she could do was gasp: “He died!”

I held her while she cried – long, agonized sobs, wracking her body. How ironic! My best friend lost her father on the day that I got mine back. I drove Joanie and her mother to Central Maine Medical in Portland, and so began one of the worst two weeks of our lives.

The next morning, I went to my folks’ place, and told my Dad about my friend’s father. We had intended to introduce them. They were both mechanics, and we felt certain that they would develop a friendship. Sadly, it was not meant to be. My dad, my dear dad … that morning, he mourned the friend he would never get to meet.

Over the next week, we attended Joanie’s father’s funeral. I spent every free moment trying to get my parents settled in. With an undercurrent of guilt for Joanie’s sake, I exchanged silly stories with my dad, and felt a warm wash of love flow over me each time I saw him laugh or enjoy something I’d brought for him. I knew I’d never get tired of seeing him happy and laughing … it was so good to have him nearby! I planned all of the things we would together: I would share my favorite spots in the woods, where all of the wild berries and nuts grew. He and I had spent a lot of time doing that sort of thing when I was young.

The evening of the 8th day after my parents arrived, I got a call from my brother …

“Dad’s in the hospital.” I began to panic, and he hastened to add “Don’t worry, we just came from there, and he’s OK. He was asking for his glasses when we left so that he could read something. It’s late, so I wouldn’t go tonight.”

He explained that my father had fallen forward out of his chair, and landed on the floor, apparently unconscious. My mother had the presence mind to call an ambulance. It would be two more days before her Alzheimer’s would suddenly become so pronounced that we all realized that she had something terribly wrong with her. But on that day, she’d still had enough on the ball to do the logical thing.

The next morning, before I could organize myself to get out the door and rush over to see my dad, my brother called again …

“Dad took a turn for the worse during the night. I think you’d better get up to the hospital.”

And he had. He was no longer conscious. Sometime during the night, he’d had a massive stroke which left him in a coma, and unable to breathe on his own. I had missed seeing him while he was still conscious … missed hearing his voice for one last time … missed his smile … missed being able to tell him how much I loved him … to hang on … not leave us … please Dad … don’t leave!

I stayed by his bedside almost constantly, only going home to make sure my husband was feeding the kids, and that everything was OK there. Most of that day, I stood by my father, talked to him, caressed his hands, his face … kissed his forehead. I willed him to stay … but he didn’t respond – he couldn’t respond.

Day number 10 dawned, and the dread I was feeling was suffocating me – making it impossible to breathe. I wanted to climb into the bed beside my father, force him to get up, and take his place. I knew it wouldn’t help – it wouldn’t bring him back. Nothing I could do would ever bring him back.

We’d been told the night before that his EEG was horribly abnormal – he would never regain consciousness or breathe on his own again. The only reason he was alive was the respirator. We were told that we had a decision to make.

My brothers made the decision – the respirator would be removed, but if he tried to breathe on his own, we would then do everything we could to keep him with us. A very perceptive nurse realized that I was not comfortable with the decision, and she offered to withdraw the heart medication they’d started giving him on his first night there. She expected that nature would take its course then, and that no one would have to do anything as immediate and decisive as “pull the plug.”

My brothers agreed. The medications were withdrawn; over the next few hours, his heart got stronger, and his blood pressure went down to normal. He was tough – he’d always been tough. When it became apparent that removing his medication was not going to cause things to happen on their own, my brothers again made the decision to remove the respirator.

Everything inside of me rebelled – my Dad! We couldn’t do that to my Dad! The nurse quietly came in, and after giving me a look of deep sympathy, turned off the machine. My youngest brother was on his left … I was on his right, we were each holding one of his hands. Joanie had my mother in her arms at the foot of the bed, and my oldest brother was looking on from a short distance.

I cried silently as I waited for a miracle … which never came. My youngest brother, with his voice cracking, whispered hoarsely, “Breathe Dad! Breathe!” Tears were streaming down his cheeks. It seemed like an eternity before the line on the monitor went flat … two eternities. Memories flashed through my mind like a slide show … picking blueberries in the woods with him as a youngster … going up with him in his friend’s little Cessna on Sunday mornings after church … our first really long, honest, adult talk one day when he was dropping me off at nursing school … him holding me, not too many years before, and telling me how proud of me he was … and now, now he was gone. Irrevocably, irretrievably gone.

I looked up in confusion as I heard my mother reply “No, eh? Not really?” when Joanie told her that her husband was “gone.” In the less than 5 minutes between the nurse coming in and turning off the machine, and my father’s passing away, she had already forgotten what was happening. Our father died … and we realized then that we were also losing our Mom. By the time of the funeral, only a few days later, she no longer recognized one of her closest friends.

This October 10th will mark the 19th anniversary of my father’s death. I’ve never stopped mourning him. If he were still alive, he would have turned 103 this last April 13th.

Little girls of any age should never need to say goodbye to their Daddies.

L-R: Gregory, Dana, Alexandra, Ben and David, Ruth and Jeffrey. Absent: Eric, the eldest son.

This morning, I attended the most difficult funeral I’ve ever been to in my entire life. I’ve lost many people I’ve loved over the years … both of my parents, so many friends … relatives … many of them took a part of me with them when they left. The funeral I went to this morning – was for someone I’d never met, but it was still the most difficult funeral I’ve ever been to.

Her name was Jillian Gaudett Hadley, and she was almost exactly 3 weeks old. She was the precious daughter of Dana and Ruth Hadley, and both of them are stunned – grieving to their depths.

Ruth miscarried last year, and this year, our entire church held its breath as we watched her progress from month to month in her pregnancy. Our rejoicing that she had carried the baby to term turned to shock and horror when we were told that her baby girl was born with Trisomy 13.

The pain in the church this morning was concentrated … palpable. Gasps were heard along with sobs as the tiny casket was carried to the front of the church by the solemn Hadley children.

Once it was over, my son told me that he could sense where the parents were with his eyes closed because of the intensity of their pain. I know exactly what he meant. I hope that I never ever again have to attend a funeral for a tiny, beloved infant.

Joe and Gloria Allis at our church picnic in 2004. They didn’t bring folding lawn chairs, they brought a folding love seat! They were still so much in love – after over 55 years of marriage. We were all a bit envious – as we’d watch Joe fuss over Gloria, open doors for her … they were like young lovers.

I came home from church after our “mercy meal” for the Hadley family, and rested for a short while before leaving for the funeral parlor. A dear friend passed away on Wednesday – Gloria Allis, also a member of my church. Gloria and Joe came on my ministry’s annual pilgrimage to the Canadian Shrines twice, and we became quite close. Although Gloria was so sick with cancer, they were both always so concerned and solicitous of me … and of everyone they got to know.

Tonight, at the funeral parlor, Joe – looking lost – wanted to know how I was. It made me cry. They’ve both always been like that. I’m so afraid of what will happen to Joe now that Gloria is gone.

Tomorrow morning, I’m going to get up early … and head back out to church – for my second funeral in as many days. This time, I’ll be saying good-bye my dear friend, and trying to give my silent support to a man whom I know feels as if he himself has died.

We are so helpless in the face of so much grief.

The theme seems to keep coming up … and I’m never left untouched, indifferent.

Doctors who pray – before surgeries, for wisdom in dealing with their patients, for coping when they feel overwhelmed, for the moment by moment of their professional lives, of their private lives …

What would lead a scientist to yield his head, heart, mind – spirit – and search out a place to commune, in the silence of his center, with a “Higher Being?” How is it that the experiential intellect is able to interfuse with the incorporeal spirit?

The phenomena always holds me in rapt fascination. I want to beg them to stop – tell me what it is they’re experiencing, thinking … describe what is motivating them … I want to understand. There’s a key in there, someplace …

Somehow, even in my inability to comprehend the driving force that morphs the man of science into the man of prayer, I admit that I would far more easily place own trust in a physician who does pray, whatever my own beliefs may be. The realm of trust and faith is less frightening when the objects of your reliance are themselves humble enough to acknowledge their own trust and faith in a Power they can neither quantify nor qualify.

The The Cheerful Oncologist breaks open the The Serenity Prayer for his readers, giving us a glimpse of how he channels the “angst” he experiences when being “bombarded” by the ills of those he treats. Dr. Bob from The Doctor is In graces us with another post of amazing depth and clarity, piercingly candid, with his latest post: The Conversation.

You can pass them by if you’d like, but you would be the poorer for the omission.

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A year ago at the end of this last July, our family was blessed when a sweet young lady moved into our home. I’ll never forget that first night – as she sat tearful and fretting on the sofa near my computer, with her suitcases and bags around her feet – all she was able to carry when she’d left the campground she and her mom had been working in every summer. At that moment – those few items, and our little family, were her entire world. Less than a year later, she was to become my daughter-in-law, but that was still a long ways off …

My heart was breaking for her … I could feel the fear and anxiety just radiating from her direction. I wanted so badly to grab her and squeeze her, and tell her that we would all love her so much that she would never regret what she’d done, but I didn’t want to overwhelm her; she looked so fragile, like a little bird tossed in a gale of emotion.

I couldn’t believe that this was only the fourth time I’d ever seen her, because I felt as if I’d known her for years. I was both relieved that she was out of the impossible situation she’d been in as long as I’d known her – indeed, her entire life up until that moment, but also worried, very worried, about what the future would bring for this sweet little sparrow who’d finally found her wings …

Thus began Sarah’s walk with us … so helpless and fearful looking, that overcast hot July evening nearly a year and a half ago.

Sarah had just escaped from a lifetime of manipulation that could be called criminal – in both its quantity and quality. I wouldn’t be able to list the things that were done to her here – that’s beyond the scope of a mere blog entry – however, I can give you a few items to ponder …

She was raised to be anorexic. She believed that crash diets, enemas … etc. … were a normal part of every adolescent’s life. Who taught her this? Her mother. That was the same woman who, on Sarah’s second visit to us, called Sarah and screamed at her over the cell phone, ordering her to cut her day with us short so that she could return to the campground, and go out on a date with a fellow she had no interest in seeing. Her mother never realized that we were all in the car, and we’d been able to hear (unable to NOT hear!) the entire tirade. Sarah acquiesced, and my son, God love him, drove his intended bride all the way back to the campground, an hour away, so that his lady-love could go on a date with some other fellow – a date her mother arraganged. In fact, although Sarah had obtained permission (with great difficulty) to spend that time with us, her mother had called and humiliated her on both of the first two afternoons we spent together.

Yes, I know that teen-agers are sometimes given to seeing even the best of parents in a jaundiced light. When I first heard about what was happening in Sarah’s life, I wondered if we may just not be hearing both sides of the story. The more my sons and I got to know her, however, the more we realized that there was definitely something wrong – and it wasn’t all Sarah. Then came the day that I met her mother, and all of my doubts vanished – forever. I could see how the lady had a reputation for being able to “fool” people, but she either underestimated my powers of observation, or simply felt so sure of own manipulative skills, that she played a very heavy, obvious, hand. I came away from that meeting full of realization and dread, sick at heart – wanting to take Sarah home with us then and there.

I wasn’t able to – but we didn’t have long to wait.

Less than a month later, Sarah caught her mother making photo copies of her private journal. In a phone conversation, she overheard her mother and brother … he was on his way up from Massachusetts. This was it. They had gone too far, and she was afraid of just what they might do next. She’d recently been locked in her cabin for a month … would they take her away from New Hampshire and lock her up someplace else? She called my son. I had no idea what was going on when he left the house – but he knew me, and how I felt, well enough to know that he didn’t need to ask. About an hour later, the phone rang. It was him: “Moof! I’m on my way home, and I have Sarah with me.”

Sweet Sarah, frightened – but finally free … at least physically.

We went through some serious “re-organizing” in our ancient, drafty, cluttered home. Daein was still home from college, his fiance was under our roof – tongues would wag. Arrangements were made to everyone’s satisfaction, and Sarah became my “new” daughter.

Daein left for college, and Sarah became my companion. The first year was tough. I had some rather debilitating surgery just over a month after she moved in, and I wasn’t able to get around and get her the things that she needed, and the poor little lady went around wearing my old, stained, beat up clothes – good enough for an old lady like me, not for a sweet little angel like her. But she was good and patient, and always tried to make me feel better about my falling so short of being able to get her properly settled in.

I worried at first, quite a bit, about Sarah starving herself – about the habits she’d been taught were normal, and safe. I was so afraid that she would end up with acidosis or some horrible electrolyte imbalance. Over a period of time, although she never lost her weight-consciousness, she began to eat normal portions, and even to snack a bit.

Oh! And that’s another story! There were so many things her mother had never allowed her to eat … chocolate, other types of candy … even Jello! She was “virgin territory” for food! I believe that she consumed a small country’s-worth of Jello when she first tasted it! As I was gleefully introducing new foods to her, she was slowly becoming my “18 year old fashion advisor.” And oh my – did I ever need one! I gave her Jello – she gave me blue toenail polish, toe rings … and we gave each other self confidence!

In spite of how much we had come to enjoy each other’s company – and the long, long talks we shared daily – I was still very worried about our little Sarah. She felt as if everything that happened was her fault. If she’d done this … or if she’d only done that … or if she’d thought in this way … or … I kept telling her that it was not her fault. She’d hear me, she’d agree – but it kept coming up, and I knew she felt guilty – all the time. I wasn’t getting through to her.

I was pushing, gently, for her to make “friendly” advances toward her mother and brother, because she misses her little nieces, and in spite of everything, loves her family. I wanted to see Sarah free, making her own decisions, but not losing her relationship to her family. I thought she just needed to draw a line and say: “I love you, but I’m living my own life. You will treat me with respect, and I will treat you with respect. Let’s start over from this new perspective, because we’re family – we shouldn’t stay apart.” It wasn’t long before I had to drop my urgings about she and her family “loving and being respectful” of each other. I watched her try to be friendly, and repeatedly end up being screamed at, verbally abused … her mother even sued her for money. All we could do was be silent in the face of all of this insanity, and continue to try encouraging Sarah. I spent a lot of time contemplating what I would be like today had I been treated in the same way …

Daein finished his junior year, came home last spring, and he and Sarah were married. Now she really is my daughter. I always tell her, “Sarah! Why weren’t you mine to begin with?” … Daein always objects, he’d rather have her as a wife … :-)

Sarah and Daein are now in their own little place up near the University of Maine. I miss her terribly, but this is the way things are supposed to be. She’s trying to get their little apartment set up … with her Cafe Louis kitchen, and her Hello Kitty bathroom. She’s even learning to make (and EAT!) some of the nicest chocolate chip cookies I’ve ever had.

But where is this all going? Sarah is finally for the first time in her life, free emotionally as well as physically. She’s been sending me emails about a web site she found – concerning a disorder named “BPD.” I thought I was pretty savvy about those things, but I’d never heard of that one. “Borderline Personality Disorder.” She sent me a web link, and I was amazed to read what the signs of BPD are … it was as if Sarah had written the web site about her mother. Blow by blow – classic. Dumbfounding.

I guess it’s not going to help Sarah’s mother much, because from what I can gather, few people ever recover … however, it’s released Sarah from the last of her chains. She now realizes that it wasn’t her fault. She realizes that she is not crazy. She realizes that her mother is ill, and that makes it easier to forgive the lifetime of agony, and walking on eggshells …

Sarah is finally, truly, totally FREE!

I asked Sarah if I could blog about all of this, and she said I could – (thank you, Honey!) There’s still so much to say … I could write forever … but really, it’s Sarah’s story to tell. She’s writing her autobiography, and I think that if she edits it carefully, and it falls into the right hands, it will go a long way.

I wonder how many people are living the way she did, and have no idea that it’s not their fault … ?

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