"now we say goodnight from our own separate sides"

Dad with Addie at her first soccer practice:

Dad in the fall of 2004, reading Jules Verne to Tyler:

There's lyrics to a song on my iPod that go: "you may tire of me, as our December sun is setting because I'm not who I used to be/ no longer easy on the eyes, but these wrinkles masterfully disguise the youthful boy below/ who turned your way and saw something he was not looking for: both a beginning and an end/ but now he lives inside someone he does not recognize/ when he catches his reflection on accident." It was playing the other day when I took Dad to get a bratwurst from Werner's (a favorite Saturday morning ritual) and I had to turn it off. 

I look at these two photos, and I think - this cannot be the same man. How can he change so much in such a short amount of time? There is no spark left in him, no light. There are flickers of him here and there - just mention Sarah Palin, and he gets fired up in a hurry! - but he's mostly just flat. Sometimes angry. Sometimes confused. And a lot of the times, terribly sad and lonely. Mom and I can only do so much, we can't replace the life he's lost: his job, friends, ability to drive and be independent. It's a helpless feeling.

The other day, he gave me a huge box of letters that Aunt Henri had saved, ones he had written to her. They start in 1988, when I'm 15, and go up until about 2 years ago. He wrote her nearly once a week, so you can imagine the volume. I have been reading them for days now, and barely made a dent. I skipped ahead and read some of the 1995 era letters, when I was pregnant and had Tyler, and I don't think I've cried so much in quite awhile. To read his detailed and proud account of his firstborn grandchild's milestones, I could feel the love emanating from his words. This is such an amazing gift for my children. They may not appreciate it now, but when they are older, they will be able to read this and know how much Apaa truly adored them. It will also be a chance for them to get to know him. He talks about his work, all his camping trips, his volunteer work with an inner-city Boy Scout Troop, his work with the Shakespeare Festival, and you get a real feel for who he is. In one letter, he refers to his letter writing as 'cheap therapy' - and right there, I can see where I get my love of writing from. 

It's been a rough few days - though, what else is new! - with Dad's chemo on Wednesday, and Mom being sick. I think she's just let herself get too run down, and I'm worried she's going to get a diverticulitis flare up, and that would suck big time. I'm trying to take Dad off her hands so she can rest, but she still has to work. I just hope she can rest and recharge her batteries.

Tonight we were supposed to be hosting a portion of the Progressive Dinner for Henry's school, but I had to back out. For obvious reasons. I look around my house, with the clouds of cat fur rolling like tumbleweeds, the mountains of laundry in the living room (clean! folded! just not put away.), the traces of black marker still evident on my family room carpet (thank you, Addie), not to mention that it looks like a toy bomb went off in our house, and I think: there was no way in hell I could have done it. And I'm relieved I said I couldn't. But I'm still sad. I still feel like I'm missing out. I get resentful - and then feel guilty for feeling that way. It's an isolating existence, but unless someone has gone through this, they really have no clue. There have been a few people who have reached out to me in the last few days - a mom at Addie's preschool, who I don't know very well, asked about Dad, and a fellow first grade Mom called out of the blue to check on me. And these small gestures meant so incredibly much to me. I feel such gratitude for people that reach out. 

Alright, I'm running out of steam, and I still need to do my kettlebell workout. I'm off. More later.