I've just returned from what felt like a whirlwind trip to the Mitten. The occasion was once in a lifetime, truly; for my parents were celebrating their 50th Wedding Anniversary.
They were married on the 15th Anniversary of the Invasion of Normandy, and in my youth, I made many jokes about how their relationship was not unlike a battle to decide the fate of the human race. But age tempers that view. Age and fate.
As most of you know, my Mother is in the near-coma that comes with the progression of Alzheimer's Disease. This monstrous affliction is worse than any kind of sudden loss; it's a prolonged loss, which manifests itself every day, and the truly evil thing about it is that you, as the victim, have a front row seat to your own downward spiral.
My Father survives; but I was mostly unaware of how badly he's been suffering until this weekend.
We're a stoic bunch, we Historiclemo men. And apparently, we can withstand oodles of pain in a kind of whimpering silence.
The whimper became a scream on Saturday night, and I have to tell you that there are some things that defy explanation: one is how a baseball manager can let a starting pitcher walk in THREE RUNS before getting the hook; and the other is how a reasonably intelligent Deity can rely upon the likes of me to hold my Father together as he falls apart in an apocalyptic come-apart as I've ever seen.
Did a hellava job, people.
But I tell you, and only you; it was as close as I've come in fifteen years to reaching for the loving embrace of my Russian friend, Stoli.
Hellava job, Johnny.
In other news: Got to see a Tiger game. Such as it was. HE WALKED IN THREE RUNS before they pulled him. I asked my Father if it was bad luck to pull a pitcher when he was in the middle of a no-hitter. Dad didn't laugh. He did boo, though. I think he was booing D Train, though.
As of yesterday, The remnants of Tiger Stadium were still standing, thanks to a last minute rush to the mound with a cease-and-desist order. Hope.
The Red Wings stunk it up in Pittsburgh, but kicked Penguin ass in Detroit. One more win, one more cup, and a the continuing dynasty. The best team money can buy.
Oh, and I forgot to put sunscreen on the backs of my hands, so I look like I was boiling my hands.
I wish I could have gotten to the cabin. I could use a little cabin right now.
Love to you, gentle reader.
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I recommend keeping the Stoli in the freezer and applying the tightly closed bottle to the back of the neck and the forehead in between the eyes. If the urge to open the bottle becomes too strong use it to whack yourself repeatedly in the head. Results will be similar.
I have a photo on my Flickr page of one of my other mothers. She's been in your mother's state, only with non-Alzheimer's dementia, for years. That photo, taken after she'd reached this point, with her grandchildren has more hits than anything else I've posted. I've known in my heart that people think it's a death portrait but tried to tell myself that after they looked closely they revised their opinion. This weekend someone commented on it (first comment) "Why is the girl smiling?" I don't quite know how to respond.
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