“Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways.”

– Stephen Vincent Benet

I am traveling this week to a land far, far away.  Two-thirds of my family of origin — my mom, my dad, and my two sisters — live in Florida.  For several days this week, my brother and I will fly South for a visit.  The last time we made the trip was  in July 2009, when we celebrated our parents’ 65th wedding anniversary.  Although we stay in touch daily by phone, this will be the first face-to-face meeting we will have in two years.  I’m sure that I have changed since that time; but I am far more aware of the changes my parents have experienced since our last reunion.

I’ve been thinking about life a lot as my departure approaches.  By the time this post is published, I will be leaving my hotel for our first day of visiting.  The last time we traveled to Florida, Mom and Dad were 87 and 86 years old.  They were living in an Independent Living apartment in a three-tiered retirement community.  Although Mom was beginning to slow considerably after the onset of dementia, Dad still was coming and going at will.  He and Mom would attend meals in the dining room and take daily walks around their building, greeting friends and neighbors.  Dad would read in church on Sunday and Mom would sit quietly in the back and listen to him.  ”You did that very well,” she would tell him.

Two years later, my folks have moved to an Assisted Living facility.  The strain of holding things together for both of them finally caught up with Dad this winter.  There were times when he could tell that he also was slipping into early stages of dementia.  He was having trouble keeping track of the details of living; and some of them, like medications, were vital to their well-being.  The transition has been difficult.  Although I have heard Dad in our phone conversations and know too well how desperately he wishes his life could be what it was twenty years ago, I shudder in anticipation of the first time I will see them — face to face — in their changed condition and way of life.

I think of my babies.  I think of how quickly they changed in the early years of their lives and how we welcomed each new milestone with celebration as they matured from infancy to childhood and finally to adulthood.  I think of my own middle years and the way it sometimes seemed as though nothing changed but the seasons, as life was filled with work and family and the sort of busy days that left me tired and satisfied but wondering what it was that I had accomplished each day.  I turned forty, then fifty, and still life kept passing at a mellow sort of pace as my children became adults and the demands of family were replaced by thoughts of what I would do with all the extra time that suddenly appeared in my days.  When fifty became sixty, I found myself thinking of how many years I might have left to do all the things that interest me.  Although the pace has slowed a bit, the limits of time begin to make each day more precious than the last.

I remember my parents at the age I am now.  I think of their vitality and love of life.  I think of their anguish in dealing with my father’s parents as they aged in ways that sometimes were less than graceful.  It was then — at the age I am now — that they made the arrangements to live where they do now, so that their children would know what they wanted for their later years and not be torn by the emotions that they felt with Grandma and Grandpa.

Now we  have arrived at the place they planned for so well when they were young and vital and loving life; but they are elderly and they have trouble remembering things and they have trouble trusting others to provide for their needs.  I am struck by the irony that at each end of life there are periods of rapid-fire change.  When babies change rapidly and radically, we celebrate.  When we move from 87 to 89 and experience radical changes, we mourn it as loss.  I see my Dad fighting so hard for the life he no longer can have that he is missing the one that now belongs to him.  I hear him feeling less than worthwhile as all the things that once defined his success and independence fall away and he is left to rely on the kindness of others.  ”What goes around comes around,” I tell him, “if you can accept the kindness of others, you will be teaching them to be kind.”  But my words fall on deaf ears.  Without his independent life, my father feels worthless and defeated.  How can I convince him that he still means the world to me?

I ask myself how I can reassure my folks, the way they used to reassure me, that everything will be all right.  I ask myself if there is a way to learn how to embrace changes even when they seem to indicate that the end of life is near.  I will hold back my tears as I did when my children were fearful and wrap my parents in the warmth of the love they have given to me.  Now I return it to them; not only as a daughter, but also as a fellow traveler who maybe has learned something from watching their journey.  ”Don’t worry,” I will tell them, “everything will be all right.”  I hope I will be listening to my own words.