Building a keel

There are a few early childhood memories that stand out vividly in my mind, and most of them are about my relationship with my dad. I remember holding his hand, the two of us walking out to our farm’s shop after lunch (although back then we called it dinner; lunch was a short snack around 4 PM, and supper followed that night). His hand was so big and rough from working; and it seemed like I had to run to keep up with his long strides. Most of my early memories of dad involve working with him on the farm – baling & stacking hay, fixing the machines, caring for the cattle, feeding the pigs, and checking the crops in the fields. There are dozens of stories to tell! As a fifth grade boy – just a bit older than my older son is now – I would drive the pickup from field to field with my dad in the passenger seat. Later that year I was plowing fields on a John Deere tractor (almost exactly like this one) - pretty cool stuff for a 10 year old!

I remember one day when we were checking the fields, this was before he let me drive, and noticing dad couldn’t keep his foot steady on the gas pedal. It was shaking, so he used his left foot, which was steadier. I was curious about that, but didn’t say anything. A while later he told me that he had Parkinson’s disease, and he explained what that was. And the last part of the explanation, etched in my mind – ‘don’t worry, it’s not contagious and it doesn’t get passed on from a dad to his son, so you’ll be OK.’ I didn’t say much, but I remember thinking that while I might be OK, my dad – the center of my world – would not be OK. What none of us realized back then is how much the health of our parents affects the health of our families.

While Parkinson’s disease may take a time-out now & then, it always comes back for more. It always advances, never retreats. Dad died of starvation on January 16, 1994, a good 16-17 years after he first told me he had the disease. The disease robbed him of any muscle control, even that of swallowing food.

So why am I writing about this? I suppose I’m trying to figure that out. Everyone recognized him as a stubborn (or maybe ‘principled’ would be another word!) yet fun-loving, respectable and honorable man and I am confident he’s enjoying heaven with all the saints. I’m not really sad he died - the disease was cruel and death seemed liberating. But I do miss him incredibly. I don’t dwell on the decline of his health, his inability to communicate for the last several years of his life, and how he was too ‘out of it’ to come to my college graduations. But I think about all those great childhood memories, and then of not having an adult relationship with my dad. The little boy in me jumps up and down and yells ‘it’s not fair!’

Life is not fair. That’s true. In fact, sometimes it truly just stinks. And then, sometimes it is just awesome! For every low point in my life, I can give you a high point. So maybe that’s the lesson here. All sorts of things will get tossed our way, but it is resilience, perspective, faith, humility and love (among others) that get us through the storm. They make the keel on our boat that gets tossed in the waves. My dad did teach me about those things, by living his life that way. And that is what I am, hopefully, teaching my boys.

Comments

[Fran]

Very moving post, Steve. Life is a series of peaks and valleys, isn't it? One of my sisters died of Parkinson's Disease five years ago and watching it progress was tragic. She died alone in a nursing home while I was vacationing--and I was her primary visitor. She had been such a vibrant woman and the end came from her when she kept getting gallbladder attacks and was too weak to operate. The doc ultimately stopped antibiotics and she simply faded away. There but for the grace of God, they say. Talk about mystery!

[Karen Haluza]

I think that what you've articulated here is the central core to a life of faith Steve.
We go through life working with all our might to strengthening that relationship to Jesus until it is so rock solid that nothing can shake us. We still feel. We still grieve. But we do not detach, or spiral out of control, or give up on God or each other.

About two years ago I made an emergency visit to my uncle during his final hours before dying of Lou Gehrig's disease. It was very painful to see this man, who looked so much like my own father, only able to move his head and his left finger. But it was so beautiful, at the same time, to get to pray with him and my cousins and to know that, even in our mourning, we were blessed.

Keep processing through. This is good stuff.
Peace,
Karen