Alzheimer's Hasn't Stopped My Dad from Soaring

“Whatcha doing today, Dad?” I say in my car, speaking from a winding black road in Connecticut to what I imagine to be a messy South Carolina desk covered with partially read books.

“Writing a poem.”

“Oh really? What about? Can you read it?” Ironically, I’m driving to my second writing class of the week.

His finely tuned, philosophical words float, swim, and dip all the way to me, all the way into my stubborn mind. Somehow they make their way through the same thick skull that used to be too hard for his idealistic thoughts, his creative language. “You’re so weird,” I used to say. Now my heart opens for the messages, now I see the wisdom, now I grow through the listening.

My dad has Alzheimer’s. And he wears it well. He wears it like a finely pressed suit that has a super jazzy tie. A purple tie that everyone thought was the worst one to have, until they saw it on my dad.

Don’t get me wrong. He doesn’t dress fancy. In fact, sometimes he might need a tad bit of fashion advice. But he wears the Alzheimer’s humbly, sharing details with me at times, laughing about them, but moving onward always, seeking more than the simplicity of a disease.

Another day comes. “What’d ya do today dad?” The list is silly. It is long. It is rich. He swims, walks, reads, writes, creates pottery, sells pottery, calls his daughters, throws footballs with his grandchildren, gets cool dislocated thumbs, kayaks, attends church, makes new friends, and still gives his daughters homemade fish roasters for Christmas.

Sure, he forgets stuff, but so do I. So I sigh with relief when we chat, knowing neither of us needs to pretend we remember what we talked about last week. Neither of us has to worry about the future. We can just talk about now. “How are you doing Amy?” he asks, and I know he really wants to know. My dad cares.

Yes, he disengages. But just like how that purple tie might work well in the right place, disengagement also is a great skill to have at times. Like when you’ve had a stressful life losing your mom early from alcoholism, serving as a naval officer in the Vietnam war, recovering from your own alcoholism, running an ad agency, managing your own furniture company, authoring and selling countless books, raising three daughters (one who is a drama queen—that’s me,) and maintaining a marriage for over fifty years.

Ya just might need to disengage sometimes. And that's OK.

Finally, my dad is a hopeless dreamer, and when I talk to him it seems that Alzheimer’s, and that rude plaque that is supposedly descending on his brain, uninvited, has only heightened his ability to dream. I used to think dreams were annoying. Now I know they are the stuff that has made up my life. Dreams have made my mind able to travel to new places when the pain comes, and to find hope in a tube of paint or a handful of words during a stormy season of life.

I can recall him smiling on the top of a ski slope as he swerved from side-to-side just a few years ago. “This is the best slope I have ever skied,” he called out. I can picture him clutching the tiller of a sailboat as he discussed his idea of sailing around the world. I can remember him traveling to China and Dubai, becoming consumed with cultures and ideas relating to foreign countries. I can see him hunched over a wheel, spinning his tenth gorgeous beige mug for a set someone might be blessed to drink from.

I remember him saying,  “Learn to write, Amy, if you learn nothing else in college, learn to write well.” I was on my way to college. It was 1988. “The ability to communicate is the greatest skill you can ever hope to have,” he said. "If you can communicate, you can do anything."

So today I want to thank my dad. 

Thank you for encouraging me to dream. Thank you for inspiring me to talk, talk, talk with words, with paint, with language, with love. Thank you for being the precious soul whom you are, deep inside a body that will age, will not be perfect— but will be my dad. My dad who will never, ever stop soaring. I know you, Dad. Your soul has no borders, and no disease can stop it. Your soul will continue flying, in its own unique way, into eternity.

This Daddy Is A Dream

This daddy is a tree standing tall.

His solid shoulders rise above three little heads with branches extending to shelter them. His steady shoes root into life with constancy, guiding a family through hospitals, surgical rooms, long endless white corridors, more hospitals, therapists offices blurring with books, through moving boxes, up mountains on shimmering bicycles, with boys flying behind— children cheering, celebrating victory.

This daddy is infinity, forever reaching farther, faster and higher.

His arms are long, lifting their mother when she trips, scooping her in from the loneliness, holding a steering wheel steady through blizzards, down ski slopes with screaming smiles flying behind through frozen flakes. “Weee!” His arms hold a boy whose mind is confused, a rollercoaster, lost in the landscape of time, but never alone. His arms wait forever, like extensions of a heart, carrying a family through troubled times, through scary places when they dare note take another step. His arms reach outward farther and farther, never giving up, embracing souls together, sailing to the stars, to heaven, where families fly.

This daddy is a harvest moon shining light into lives, promising goodness tomorrow.

His smile comes as certain as the sky, arcing a rainbow onto everything this mommy sees, healing a hole trying to bend her.

This daddy is a dream, he is the father to my children and I am grateful in ways that I will never be able to fix here in time, never be able to capture.

Thank you God for this daddy. May his father's day be infinitely joyful now and forever— may all fathers including my own, here and in heaven, in the stars, and in the dust, smile with You FOREVER. I am certain that the fruits of their branches will never, ever die.

Arms Like Mine

A piece I wrote for Mamalode.com, a thoughtful motherhood blog:

“Mama, can I come home? Please? Can you come get me? He was mean again. He told me he’s glad I’m leaving this school.” The voice of my 9-year-old sounded like it was inside of my ear, echoing through my head, pushing out of my tear-ducts..."

http://mamalode.com/story/detail/arms-like-mine

Still Bones Remind Me That I Am Alive

Copyright 2014, Amy Aves Challenger

I’ve got problems to solve (still…what school? What town? What house?) I’ve got laundry to fold, phone calls to make, a novel to write, a body to tone, a mind to perk up, goals to accomplish….you get the idea.

But this morning is one that I might not have, if I had passed on yesterday. I might not have had this day.

I hear a bird, reminding me that I am here, reminding me of the man I know from my past, a man who left his family yesterday for a place I do not know. He left, and did he know he was going? He left, and did he say goodbye? He didn’t know me well, but I'm sad he is gone. His smile is here, alive as I type, joking with teenagers whom he taught about God, a wink to my children, a smile to his children. A smile that is missed.

Because of him, I’m reminded today that I’m alive. Yes. So simple, really, this treasure. My life. A tremendous gift handed to me again and again, for one more morning, for one more second. A chance for my bones to rise, to move through doorways, leading to anywhere, leading to everywhere. 

This morning I have ears to hear calling spring birds, fingers to touch caterpillars tickling my child's hands, eyes to perceive my boy’s worried brow, breath to inhale the warmth of my home, the scent of hot buttery toast and lavender whiffs of clean young clothes.

I’m alive for my children, for my husband, for the strangers I pass today. Those strangers who could become strangers no more if I smile. I’m alive for new friends, for old ones, for my family, and for yours. I’m alive to love well, to comfort, to forgive, to apologize, to speak truly, to breathe when I can’t find breath anymore. I’m alive to cry when life hurts, when loss is heavy, when I need other lives around me. 

I’m alive, I’m a mother, I’m a woman, I’m a child. I’m alive for the words that I write on a page that might remind someone else that he or she is alive today, too.

And I'm alive to pray for the bones that lie still, for the bodies whom I can no longer touch, but whose souls are here for me to reach for. Maybe they are alive, in me, in you, around us and through us, speaking with us so that we can all be alive, together, one day. 

God bless.

The Lines and Dots of My Body

“Do you wear dangly earrings?” asked Dr. Smith, the dermatologist, yesterday as she gave me my full body exam. I had skin cancer two years ago, so it was a necessary appointment for me.

What? I thought. Who knows? I know how many strawberries my kids ate this morning, what time I need to pick them up at school this afternoon. I know I’m making ravioli with roasted asparagus for dinner tonight. I know I have four hours left to get home, reply to my emails, complete my writing homework, fold the laundry and dash to the grocery store. But do I wear dangly earrings? Um, who cares?

“I guess so,” I replied. My mind was full. Annoyed.

She squinted through dark-rimmed glasses at the bumpy pink skin just below my ear. “This is probably caused by your jewelry”, she said, pressing her fingertips over the pattern of protrusions. “You’ll want to take care of it by switching to simple stud earrings for a while.”

But without my giant earrings, people will notice my face more (jewelry is a great distractor,) leading them to consider my wrinkles, I thought. I was fairly sure I’d ignore her advice. She could have been using the dangly earring tactic in an attempt to get me to think more about my face, thus influencing me to try the BOTOX that was bursting through the lips of the girl on the poster on the white wall beside me. She was a clown dressed as a human grinning and proud of her puffed flesh, flattened on shiny paper, for patients like me to dream about. No no. This sales pitch wouldn’t work on me. I felt the bumps on my neck. They did feel kind of gross…

Then her scrutinizing doctor-eyes examined the rest of my body, scanning my ridges for all imperfections. She swept her hands over the expanse of my back, inside my hands, through my hair, and along my limbs considering areas I barely realized were covered in skin. She called out funny words for the spots she found, so that her assistant could write them in the record book. (I have a lot of spots.) I was a human specimen whom she was checking for errors, like cancer, and eczema, and worst of all— unsightliness. I could have been a corpse. (Except that corpses don’t tell doctors whether they wear jewelry.)

My endless imperfections screamed at me. The wrinkles, pores, freckles, moles, bumps and curves. And that was just the outside. I felt weird. A few minutes earlier I had actually believed that I was going to get a break for five minutes, lying on a table. Even if I was in a white, soapy-smelling room, wearing a paper gown, it could have been restful. Damn it.

“Do you run?” she asked, her nose slightly scrunched as she rubbed the blood blister on my toe. I wondered if she was enjoying this. I told her I do run, adding that I wear “barefoot shoes” which was probably why my feet appeared to have been ground in a lawn mower before becoming freeze-dried and hard. They were ugly. “Here’s another one,” she said, prodding a flaming red bubble on my right, big toe. I hadn’t noticed that. Good point. It was a mess down there.

Then I remembered reading a blog post from an old elementary school friend, Marjorie. She had eloquently written that the marks of her body were signs of her history, like points on a map, telling part of her story (she didn’t quite say it in those words, but you get the jist.)

And lying there on the table, I jumped out of my body for a moment and looked down, realizing that my skin and bones and mind have a story, too. One I ignore. Maybe I have believed its curves and lines and dots aren’t good enough, its sadness is purposeless, its joy is too dramatic. I’ve felt pressured to smooth my skin, minimize my pours, starve my fat, suffocate my waist, puff my cheeks, and paint my skin. Paint it thick. Make me pretty. Happify me.

And what about my kids? Their curves, their dots, their unique little cells are waiting to be discovered.  Each one carefully created and worthy of existence. But I wrestle to see my children beneath the demands placed on them and on me. Sit still, follow directions, do homework, forget nothing, smile, brush your hair, scrub your teeth, be nice, work hard, play hard, win, lose well, be humble, be courageous, be yourself, listen, be quiet, sleep, wake, do it again.

Tomorrow I’m going to watch for the little surprises in me, in my kids, in my husband, in you, in the grey sky out my window, in the rain, in the tears of my child. Yes, they’re all imperfect— or maybe not. Maybe they are as they should be, and the imperfection is in the thing behind my eye, in my point of view. Maybe I miss the great textural strokes of life when I’m blind to the richness that is there for me—

Thank you God for this most amazing life.

Seeing The Light Through The Clouds

I like to stare at the clouds sometimes. They try to bug me, following me around, but I have learned to smile at them and snap pics of them to spread across my computer screen. Those drip-drops coming from my clouds shout out as they fall, “HEY! Amy! What school, what town, what house, what people? Were in the HELL are you are going to live?” (My husband, the breadwinner, is seeking a job— somewhere. We have only lived in our current home for under a year, but our move here led us to a job that was not right (click if you're interested.) His next job could be in San Francisco, Boston, NYC or possibly, Timbuktu.)

The cloud’s lightening crashes into places like my SUV on the way to school. I’m trying to escape as I sing the lyrics, I don’t Even Know if I Believe,” by Mumford and Sons, but the rainy crescendo overpowers poor Marcus Mumford with, “Amy, how the HELL are you going to get your oversized house ready to sell when you’ve got two dogs, two cats, 2 geckos, a newt and a three crazy young kids (one with special needs) and a husband running around?”

Finally, a bucket of water splashes down from the cloud at night when I’m listening to my little girl cry out about the fear of leaving more friends. The moisture of our mess sputters all over the pretty pink walls, “Amy, how are you going to protect your babies from the pain of leaving more people? Leaving another home? How are you going to keep their joy inside? How?”

Then I think of the people I know. Most of them have clouds, too. Like my friend who has been fighting cancer. She also has a torment of threat above her, sitting there every day. Hers' makes mine look like some kind of mist, just a vapor in the wind.  I admire my friend. I hold her life up in the light, to turn and observe, like a fine specimen of a human being. I am strengthened by her words about pain. I’m emboldened by how she shares, how she walks fast through it all, feeling it, revealing it, then moving on. Admitting that the experience of fighting cancer is not glorious. It is scary. It is painful. It sucks. 

Then I think of my friend who mothers her special needs child and his sibling without any father at all.  She cares for her parents too, and she has health problems of her own. My friend can’t take a job because her family's needs don’t allow for any long period of time for her to be away, doing something ludicrous like working toward one thing, for money. No, she doesn’t get the satisfaction of simplicity like that. Her life is complicated beyond my comprehension. Yet her face lights up and her voice sings when we talk. She has incredible conversations with me (when we can find a minute,) and she reminds me that giggles and gratitude and love come from inside the most difficult of circumstances. 

Then I think of the homeless guys at the shelter where I serve lunch. I used to be scared of them, and sometimes I still am. When they stare at me a little too much, I’ll admit, my knees shake and I shift from leg to leg with discomfort. But when I connect with them, when I get past my jitters, then I get to see incredible stuff. Their storms are scary, and lonely, and tired, but they reveal treasures I cannot access in my shallower darkness. I get a glimpse of the power that these men have to grin, to say a kind word, to crack a joke, even when they are without a home, without money, without family. Their eyes grasp light-filled sparks of time that they share with me if I allow myself to look in their direction, and if I'm willing to listen.

And let’s not forget Moses. Even if you aren’t a “believer” you must know about him. Moses walked toward the cloud that held GOD. He was scared, but he did it! Moses knew, way, way, way back then, that the beauty of all of creation was inside the darkness, inside the fear. And he had to walk there to share it with all of us.

So today, I’m gonna keep looking inside the collision of precipitation that is raining over me. I’m not going to run away. But instead I’ll share it. I’ll keep on pulling out what I can find in there, and when this storm ends and the rainbow comes again, I have faith that there will be sweet, green and yellow and orange new life. I’ll drink it up, leaping and hollering over the fact that my rain turned to honey. That my storm led me to goodness again, as it always does. 

Thank you God for the strength of your light that sometimes can only be seen in the darkness. Thank you for the raindrops that patter above all else, for the storms that are strong enough to find us, and for the sweet flowers of new seasons that are forgiving enough to embrace even souls like mine, once again.