“Your dad appears to be exhibiting some passive aggressive behavior. He’s ‘pocketing’ his pills.”
I’m startled by the words that greet me as I take my place at the too-big table in the icy conference room, the only room in this assisted living facility that has air conditioning.
My sweet, docile father.
Even in his advanced state of dementia I have never known him to be anything but compliant. Hearing these words from a hospice chaplain catches me off guard. How does a chaplain come up with the words passive aggressive to describe a 90-year old man with dementia? I open my mouth to speak but I don’t trust my voice. Hospice has been my lifeline, angels on earth. I feel the threads of my reverence fray as I struggle with this stranger’s perception of my dad.
I grip the table in an attempt to steady the room, which appears to be vibrating, fluorescent lights adding to the din. (an excerpt from a longer essay titled The Chaplain)
That was one of the most difficult visits I remember during the three years my dad spent in the care of others, first an assisted living facility, then a skilled nursing home. I left that room knowing that I needed to capture the man he once was in a tangible form so that his caretakers could truly see him.
I spent the next several weeks gathering photos and writing slices and snippets to accompany them. Then, I spent an entire day in the Apple store tenderly placing those photos and stories in an iBook that became my father’s birthday present that year.
There were tears, yes, but they were cathartic. In the midst of tattered photographs and lusciously lyrical memories, I learned that I could once again live those moments with my dad each time I opened this book.
I’m still collecting those stories. I’m still living those moments.
On Tuesday I begin round four of my Luscious Legacy Project ecourse. I know that some of you have been circling this course for some time. If it’s money that is holding you back I’d like to offer you a pay-what-you-can scholarship opportunity. Yes, that can be any amount at all. Here’s what you can do to enter:
First, tell me what you will bring to the Circle. What will you add to this experience? Something like a wide-open heart for example.
Next, tell me what you hope to create and why. (Anything goes, surprise me!)
And finally, a short essay to the prompt: I REMEMBER. It doesn’t have to be long to be poignant. Even a slice or a snippet will do.
You can submit that to my sueann (at) sueanngleason.com email address or through the contact page on this website. I’ll need those submissions by Sunday, October 18th at midnight (EST). Can’t wait to see what shows up!
Meanwhile … a few of my snippets. Enjoy.
And now tell me dear friends, what stories do YOU hold dear? Feel free to share a few slices or snippets of treasured memories below.
20 thoughts on “A Sift of Lost Faces”
mmmmmmmmm Sue Ann! your story so deeply touches my heart! And while I have read different tales of your relationship with your dad and was fortunate enough to be a witness to this time in your life, I learned new things in this story.
“I left that room knowing that I needed to capture the man he once was in a tangible form so that his caretakers could truly see him.”
I never knew or don’t remember that one of the reasons you created the beautiful book for Sam was so that others could truly see him. Wow. And now I wonder what if everyone had a son or daughter or friend who gathered together the life stories of a senior with dementia so that those caring for them could see and relate to them as a person with a rich human history, what a difference it would make!
and then this….
“I’m still collecting those stories. I’m still living those moments.”
Yes, yessssssss… this I know… that something about telling the tales of our ancestors, reading their letters, or looking at their photos, has me “still living those moments”. They are not dead. Nor in the past, when I read them in the present. Their heartbeat is with me. Their walk, breath, laughter, pain. It is truly a wonder.
I am so grateful that you are doing this, Sue Ann! and you are my tether to this very same work that has become so vitally important to me, perhaps for different reasons, and yet much of it is the same… scribing the lives of those whom I love and who have influenced mine. I have done quite a bit of work, or at least begun, and yet this is a lifelong project. I feel you and I will be working this together for the rest of our lives. And that feels truly wonderful. <3
Kathleen, I’m am always so honored to greet you here. You have been such a fierce and loyal witness to this journey and yes, this is, indeed, a lifelong process. I am merely opening the portal and holding a very sacred space for these stories to emerge. I hope to see you in the Circle. I know you are working this material in so many deeply profound ways. Much love to you. xxoo
Oh, Sue Ann. I never ever ever tire of hearing about your father. I love the stories. I treasure them, as if he were my own friend or kin. His spirit lives on in such a beautiful way thanks to your exquisite gift of words. Some day I hope to see the book you made for him. Because, you know, celebration books are my passion!
And … those “snippets” at the end of your post are simply divine.
You are such an artist, through and through.
xo
S.
Mmmmmmm, your words. Your heart. Thank you. xxoo
Sue Ann, what a LOT you’ve been through… are remembering… still experiencing (!) because of your innate ability to write your “thoughts.” xoxo They bless mine.
Sam was (and always will be) a “thought influencer” in your life. Very cool that you’re coming to grips with that in this post and others. A HUGE loss…
Right now I’m dealing with my Mom’s REFUSAL to address her potential Parkinson’s… her NEED for “help”… my helplessness…
One day at a time… one post at a time revealing your heart’s anguish & triumphs, xo.
Oh Kim, I can only imagine your angst as you navigate this very tricky terrain. I feel the weight of the REFUSAL that you’re experiencing. Yes. I think our loved ones must sometimes cling to that last shred of control over their lives and it is us, the daughters and sons who must watch and wait and respond with as much compassion as we can muster. Holding you tenderly here.
I’m with Sherry – the stories about your father are so delicious.
The maple walnut in the freezer brought me zooming back to my Grandma’s kitchen – wondering if there would be any ice cream this visit…of if we’d get to help make it. Regardless, the freezer was always full of freshly baked bread & kaiser rolls – the joy of growing up in a Polish bakery in Chicago reignited for my Grandpa after his retirement.
It warms me deeply whenever I happen upon a whiff that elicits the memory of that bread, warm from the toaster, butter melting into it the fluffy white centre…
Yum! The joy of growing up in a Polish bakery in Chicago. I suspect we have some very similar childhood memories, Cathy. I was eating pasta and you were most likely eating pierogi!
” I feel the threads of my reverence fray” wow.
Sue Ann, you have crafted this page so beautifully! it calls forth story from deep inside me. You’ve blended so much. Your public grief is a healing gift.
Thank you for being such a beautiful witness to my writing, Rebecca. I am going to take your words into my day for sustenance. xxoo
Recently I’ve had the pleasure of stealthily stealing my parents’ photos, scanning them and then turning them into a gorgeous book that I gave them for their 50th wedding anniversary. Some of the pictures I wasn’t even entirely sure who all the people were, but I knew they were important. And this surprise was not only a gift for my parents, but also for me — hearing the stories and laughter and seeing the shared glances was a bigger gift than I could have imagined.
Yes, Laura, yes. I am as enchanted by the mysterious photos as I am by the ones I can easily decipher. What a beautiful gift you created for them! xxoo
a gripping and stunningly real glimpse into caring for elderly parents. and i love that you captured your father’s essence in images and words. i’ve already lost my beloved mom and i’ve begun the journey with my dad. i am finding this season of life far more difficult than giving birth and raising my children. something to do with the finality as i myself grow older, i guess.
Yes, April, I don’t think we can ever really be prepared for this season of life and the changes in our parents we must witness and embrace. I remember saying so many times that I had to fall in love with the new version of Sam. Ghost of the original man but a dear heart just the same. xxoo
So much love for your darling dad in this post Sue Ann. The grief never leaves us, but we can only honour their lives by transmuting that grief into beauty and love for others. Photographs are powerful tools for recollection and recovery of misplaced memories. X
“Transmuting that grief into beauty and love for others,” what a beautiful perspective, Penny, thank you. xxoo
The stories about your dad always make me tear up, Sue Ann.
I hold so many stories dear, but perhaps my favorite is my Nana playing Julia Child in the kitchen.
In the summer, my sister stayed with my grandparents at the beach house on Little Peconic Bay in NY. Each day, Nana had a different themed day for us. I believe Wednesdays were Cooking Class, where Nana would impersonate Julia Child. My sister and I would laugh and laugh and laugh. My Nana was (and still is at 94!) such a ham. Wonderful memories. 🙂
I love that story! Oh my, 94 and still a ham. I love that. I have enjoyed ‘meeting’ a few of your family members, Michelle. You come from fine stock, indeed, and it shows. xxoo
Sue Ann, this is stunning. Stopped me in my tracks. I have never thought much about capturing a family legacy, but your stories and photos have reframed that for me. Thank you.
Right now I’m remembering my mother’s mother, my nana. My son is failing Spanish, so I’ve started learning it with him. Nana was from Puerto Rico, so she spoke Spanish with me. I resisted learning it because her foreignness embarrassed me. But now when I teach my son, “Yo quiero un cafe,” I remember my Nana offering it to me — “Quiera cafe con leche, mamita?” Si, gracias.
Yes, Allison, yes, I can remember rejecting pieces of my heritage as a child too, when I wanted to fit in with my friends whose families were born and raised in the United States and who appeared more educated and more articulate than my extended family. My grandfather never learned English but my grandmother studied the newspaper as religiously as she prayed her rosary every night and she learned to speak the language and write it, too. I come from a long line of very strong women. It’s only in recent years that I am fully appreciating that lineage. xxoo