I'm at DIA, waiting to catch my connection to Portland, where I will probably owe my firstborn to get my car out of long-term parking.
When someone asks if Dad is OK, the honest answer is "no."
He knows his name, and he knows admitting his birthdate is usually followed by a needle somewhere, so sometimes he lies about it. He can walk - sometimes without a walker or cane - but right now, he mostly gets around in a wheelchair. It's fun to push him.
He finally started calling Matt "Matt," instead of "worm" or "dirtbag" or "that clown who couldn't possibly be my son."
And then he told Matt he loves him. Matt almost had to leave the room.
He was that near to tears.
He hugged Dad instead.
Dad can remember the name of a tiny New England town we went to last summer, but he's shocked to know Matt's in medical school and the Navy and that I moved to Washington.
He can use either hand to eat, but shirt buttons confound him. He thinks he's in Rapid City, but he gives us instructions for raiding a North Vietnamese village.
He can identify people in pictures, but face-to-face interaction confuses him. Phone calls? You'd never know anything was wrong.
There is a long, sad, frustrating road ahead of us. Mom starts crying whenever she thinks about it.
I cry with her.
But there are great, hilarious moments, too.
"Dad, do you know what state you're in?"
"I'm in a state of total delusion."
He remembered he's a Republican & a Baptist and that he's voting for Romney.
So That stuck around somewhere.
Just don't ask him what he had for dinner 10 minutes ago.
I leave you with some images that helped me smile through tears in these weeks - images that reminded me that my God is bigger than any of this - and bigger than my fears about it.
"Hold me, Jesus - 'cuz I'm shaking like a leaf; You have been King of my glory; won't You be my Prince of Peace?" ( -Rich Mullins)
