Tag Archives: Henry Campbell

June 7, 2012 · 8:56 pm

My Dad wonders, “What’s the alternative?”

For Father’s Day, I’m putting together a digital scrapbook of sorts. I came across some notes I scribbled after talking with Dad in 2009. We had talked a little about the fact that he doesn’t live in the past despite some agonizingly painful memories, as when my sister died of leukemia at the age of four:

The past is over. And I can’t live in the future. So I live in the present. I have these distinct periods of my life. They’re almost separate lives. I wish your sister had lived. In my last memory of her she was in an oxygen tent, holding out her arms and saying, “Daddy help me.” I couldn’t do a thing.

It struck me that, as emotional as Dad is, he has been – and is – a very practical man.  He does what has to be done.  When memories are too painful, he doesn’t dwell on them.

A few days later, we talked a little more.

“I’m getting to be an old crock,” he said.  I commented, “You do so much better than most people your age – you’re hardly an old crock.”  Then he said, “I hope it doesn’t shock you, but I look forward to being with your mother again.”

Now, Dad and I had talked about his concept of faith and God many times in the past, and he had expressed regret that he couldn’t quite believe in God, much as he might want to.  Further, he found it unfair that my Mom, a woman of so much faith in God, would express fear of death when she was in the late stages of terminal lung cancer.  So I said, “I take it you do believe in an after-life.”  He replied:  “What’s the alternative?” I’ll take that as a yes.

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June 3, 2012 · 6:30 pm

Real emotions from a real man

Dad started singing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” today at the kitchen table, and as always, he choked up.

“It was a terrible war,” he said. “They all are.”

Then he went on to say, “I’m a sentimental man. But it’s real. I mean it.”

I know Dad means it. I’ve known it for a long time. In a strange bit of juxtaposition, today I came across a letter I wrote to my Dad when I was 22. I was very, very angry at him for an argument we had. It ended badly, with him physically throwing me out of his room when I stood my ground. In retaliation, I took his car and drove very, very fast around the Olympic peninsula, returning to my parents’ home in the wee hours of the morning. (Like that was really intelligent.)

I wrote:

A long time ago, I wrote an essay about myself. I found myself struggling with words to describe you, and to describe my feelings about you. I kept coming up with metaphors about rocks — things that reflected both strength and immovability. And no one would question that you are both of those things.

Somehow, Dad, it is different growing up as your daughter and not as your son. For all the femininity that is within me, I am still as strong and independent as my brothers – a person quite capable of standing on her own two feet. To accept this in a son, I believe, is less difficult than to accept it in me. Perhaps it is for this reason that years of feelings welled up inside me as we spoke tonight, and I realized I needed to be accepted, in the same way my brothers are respected, once and for all….

I understand your strength. I understand your pride, and that you cannot show weakness most of all to me. I see the softness and warmth that you have as a father. But I have never seen the side of you that could say to me, ‘I am wrong,’ or ‘I am sorry.’

…Tonight, however, just for once in my 22 years, I needed to hear something. I needed to hear something other than ‘dismissed.’

I believe you rejected me tonight because for the first time in my life I was terribly insubordinate to you. I said no.

…I love you but I have always been afraid of you. Part of my growing up and turning twenty-two was finally fighting this love-fear feeling about my father. “They” say some things like this are never gotten over, but I’m not writing a psych book and I could care less what anyone else has to say about my need for ‘reaffirmation.’

…Do you know how much it meant to me when you said you wanted to take me fishing and just to talk to me this summer? I guess that was the first time you had ever really wanted to sit down and share those words of wisdom with me that I have always imagined you have with my brothers. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as the day you asked me about going fishing.

This is the grown-up me that you may not always notice, Dad. It isn’t the woman that you and Mom have often doubted would have enough love — unselfish love — to be happy in marriage. This is the me that my friends have come to know, the one that has a lot of love to give, but needs it in return, too.

…I need to hear that you could say you were sorry. I need, just once, to see that side of you. And I’m sorry, but I’m not sure why. I just know it’s a fact.

You may not like me very well after you read this letter. You may be able to dismiss it, or say I’m upset, or say I’m trying to fight you. I’m not, however, doing any of those things. With every once of love in my heart, I’m showing you everything that’s there. And Dad, that more than anything else demonstrates my tremendous love and trust and admiration for you.

Please don’t take this letter as any form of criticism. Take it as what it is — just a very big step in your daughter’s final transition into adult and womanhood.”

How did the story end? My Dad said he was sorry. He showed me the love and respect I so desperately needed then. Our relationship changed forever.

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May 24, 2012 · 1:27 pm

In the end, there’s…. chocolate

 

My goals as a daughter and caregiver have changed since 2006, when I moved my Dad to California. I imagined we’d make the grand tour of the foothill wineries, in search of the very best Zin. But then he lost his taste for wine (although he still enjoys a small glass before dinner), and car trips became uncomfortable. I find that I am no longer trying to ensure “a fun old age” for him.

My goals now are simple: keep him from feeling lonely, and make sure he gets chocolate every day. I think I’m succeeding at both.

As I returned him to his assisted living apartment the other day (which he views as purgatory), I told him I’d be back the next day and explained that I don’t want him to be lonely. “I don’t get lonesome,” he said. “But I do miss you.”

And as for chocolate, well, here’s the proof. This is a typical scene of Dad at lunch. What could be better than chicken, milk, the New York Times and a side of chocolate cake?

He’s lost so much of his former life (and glory, he would add). The 5th USMC Reserve Officers Commission class (of May 1941) is down to 25 members from its original complement of 304. His closest friends and brothers are long gone.

But he’s still got me, as well as other family members who love him. And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

 

 

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May 22, 2012 · 3:50 pm

Finding myself on the front page, kind of

I was shocked last Sunday when I saw the Sacramento Bee’s front page: “Many types of loss mark midlife for boomers.” The online version has an even more depressing headline, “Boomers’ lives full of losses expected and unexpected.”

I felt like I’d seen a reflection of myself in a carnival fun house mirror. Me, but distorted.

The article by Anita Creamer, consistently one of the Bee’s best columnists and writers (in my humble opinion), reports that boomers are being hit by divorce, the death of parents, fading youth, failing health and economic loss.

Parts of the image I recognize. They call people my age “the sandwich generation” for a reason. We’re often squished between the needs of our children and those of our elders. In 2005, I answered an internal call to care for my Dad and gave up a job and identity that I truly loved.

For the first six months after I “retired,” before my Dad actually made the move from Washington, I felt a profound loss of identity. I didn’t know how to measure the value of my day: what had I produced? I didn’t know how to answer when people asked me, “What do you do?” The hole that I left in my team of co-workers slowly filled in. The hole they left in me was slower to heal.

But loss isn’t what I feel now, with this big caveat: nothing truly bad has happened. We’ve been hit by the economy (who hasn’t?) and we don’t have the resources that we did when I worked, but we’re secure enough.

My marriage is probably stronger and my relationship with my children better, despite the energy that funnels into caring for Dad.

And my health is better. One of the priorities I made for myself starting four years ago was a regular exercise program, something I’d never been good about but knew I needed as an outlet from the stress of caring for Dad. I started by having a trainer come to the house once a week, knowing that I would wimp out when it came to something like – oh, I don’t know – getting my heart rate up above 90. If our appointment was at my house, I figured, I couldn’t escape.

Several women in my neighborhood noticed (since I looked pretty dorky doing lunges in my driveway). They were interested in trying it, too. Four years later, we continue to split the cost of a trainer and added more workouts.

I no longer look at productivity the way I once did. I am better at being in the moment with my father. A friend recently sent me this email:

I have found in my Hospice work that heart time is different from mind time.  Culturally you and I are programmed to be productive — even in our sleep we should be productive with our psyche!!  Foolishness. Just being with each other, and not doing is a major blessing few really get.  The ancient ways here understood it fully.

My elderly friend, Jackie, who lives nearby can sit quietly in her meditation room for a long period.  She can see in a simple flower bloom a beauty that most miss, or the little birds in her back yard.  She absolutely relishes ‘living’ instead of doing although she is a doer too.

Glad you are having this time.  Just remember, sometimes with those who are really advanced in age, they are here but en route to the other side, they spend some moments in the nether region — the space between — maybe a way of getting used to letting go.  When they are in it, they are distant from those around them even when those around them are physically present.  Don’t take it personally — tis the way of the universe — turn it over to God.

I’m grateful to Ms. Creamer for covering this important topic. I’m grateful for this time with my Dad. I’m grateful for the changes this period has wrought in me. I guess I’m just plain grateful.

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April 26, 2012 · 1:39 pm

When nothing is something

One of the unexpected consequences of our Pilgrim upbringing is a tremendous emphasis on work as a moral virtue. Time we are sitting can seem like time we are wasting, or at the very least, remind us of our endless lists of uncompleted tasks.

When a parent is growing older but not really “up there,” it’s easy to find ways to brighten their days: lunch or dinner in a restaurant, an outing to the theater, a trip to see family. But as the burden of age sets in, making “play dates” with a parent can get hard on the caregiver and care recipient. It’s easy to revert to  the mode we grew accustomed to when our children were small.

A little while ago, I offered to take Dad out for his daily walk, and he said, “I don’t know what’s wrong but I really don’t feel up to it today.” So I heated up some leftovers for his lunch and started tidying up in the kitchen. And then I realized: this is it. Through shared meal times, I can give Dad some normalcy. So I sat down. Ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He read the paper. I read the paper.

These moments of nothing have the potential to be something. For the older person, perhaps having someone sit with you at the kitchen table mirrors the mundane (but missed) moments they may have had with their spouse. It’s quiet but companionable. For the adult child, these quiet moments say, “I’m willing to stop my life long enough to just be present with you.” Or, “I’m here if you have a memory that comes to mind.” Or, “I just like sitting with you.”

We don’t always have to do something to make the time pleasurable. Sometimes nothing is everything.

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January 25, 2012 · 9:00 pm

Why it’s a good thing that my Dad talks to himself

Back in the day, Dad could dance!

I thumbed through the February issue of SELF magazine earlier today and read this: “Find out if your crew is confidence-boosting and how to connect with pals who buoy you, even on ‘I feel fat’ days.”

An hour later, I took my 95-year-old Dad out for his daily constitutional, a two-block walk that now takes about 40 minutes to complete since he frequently stops to let his moderate chest pain subside.

Every time we start on our walk, he has to confront the steps. He approaches them very cautiously, especially since having a stroke eight years ago.

Out loud he says, “I think I’m gettin’ to be an old man.” Or, “Woo, I feel tottery today.”

After we cross the street and he takes his first rest stop, he says, “C’mon, Henry. You can do better than that.”

But sure enough, his joints eventually loosen up and he gets into a slow but comfortable walking rhythm. Momentum is on his side.

Then he says, “Atta boy, that’s the Henry we know and love.”

Although my Dad usually expresses his dismay at how difficult it is when he begins his walk, he never fails to cheer himself on when he starts to walk more confidently.

SELF suggests readers use alternative scripts to use in response to friends when those friends say things like, “I’d kill to have Gwyneth’s abs.” SELF tells women to stop beating themselves up.

While Dad often begins by commenting on his frailties, he also verbally encourages himself to keep trying, and then compliments himself when he sees improvement.

I doubt that SELF will ask my Dad to submit his workout tips, as they have with Jillian Michaels and other hard bodies. But we could all learn a few things from him!

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January 19, 2012 · 1:53 pm

Understanding my Dad through poetry

A cartoon created as part of a book given by Dad's colleagues at Canadian Armed Forces Staff College in 1957

Communication has become very difficult for my Dad: bad hearing, slowed comprehension, harder articulation. But my Dad has something most people do not: a bottled up store of memorized passages that seem to uncork of their own accord.

As my Dad lay on a gurney in an Emergency Department exam room last Sunday, he suddenly exclaimed:

“I am Ozymandius, King of Kings. Look on my Works ye Mighty, and despair!”

I don’t think the ER staff was impressed. In fact, if I hadn’t been there, they might have though he’d jumped the track. But I knew exactly what was going on. My Dad’s unconscious mind summoned up a passage that he felt was germane to the situation.

Though I wasn’t familiar with it, I quickly googled the phrase on my iPhone and found it in a poem written by Shelley in the 19th century.

The poem describes an old statue with a powerful visage that survives despite being shattered and sunk in desert sands. Dad’s exclamation was the inscription on its pedestal.

The more I thought about it, the more I felt it was the perfect passage for a unplanned visit to the hospital. It was Dad’s way of saying, “I may be diminished by age and illness, but I am still here.”

Then, later in the week, another fragmentary bit of poetry served as Dad’s way of saluting his nurse, Dawn. He offered, “And the dawn came up like thunder, outer China ‘crost the Bay.” Kipling’s poem “Mandalay” celebrates his love of the Orient. While Dad’s memory was jogged by his nurse’s name, I’m not at all surprised that he came up with a poem that celebrates a “neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land.”

And then today, after Dad was complimented for his meticulous oral hygiene during his six-month check up at the dentist, out came this one: “My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.”

I’m sure my Dad meant it a little self-mockingly. But while he may not be everyone’s idea of Sir Galahad as described by Tennyson, I think the phrase somehow fits him. He’s always been a straight-up-no-bullshit kind of guy; in fact, that trait almost got him court martialed during the war when he disregarded an order that he knew would have been a mistake.

He may not be everybody’s idea of Sir Galahad, but he is my Sir Galahad.

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June 9, 2011 · 3:18 pm

Rx for aging #1: Get outside and walk

I call my Dad a miracle man for good reason.  Besides surviving Iwo Jima and personal tragedies, he has come back time and time again from serious medical conditions.  After his third heart attack and subsequent bypass surgery at the age of 82, his cardiovascular surgeon told the family that he likely would only have five years before his arteries became clogged and life-threatening.  I thought of it like shelf life.  Dad’s “expiration date” was therefore 2004.

Since then, he’s had two small strokes and one big one.  In 2004, the physicians and stroke rehab specialists told us he would probably never be able to walk independently or without dragging his weakened left leg.  When he was assessed following his small stroke last month, the various physicians who checked his strength said that they couldn’t detect any difference in his left side strength.

So what keeps Dad keepin’ on, besides the discipline of being a retired Marine?  I think the number one thing that contributes to Dad’s physical and mental well-being is walking. We’re a funny sight in my neighborhood or on the levee beside the American River: me pushing Dad’s walker, while he holds on with his left hand and steadies himself on the other side with a cane.  Our double-wide approach to walking overcame what he didn’t like about walking with the walker — freedom of stride — while providing stabilization on both sides.

I realize that Dad is unusual — and lucky — for having someone who will take the time to walk with him, almost daily.  But what if walking buddies were a part of senior care programs, or a popular volunteer program?  If we can have dog-walkers, why not “Dad walkers”?

On the “about” description for this blog, I explained my vision: …a celebration of (my Dad’s) indomitable personality and wisdom, a rant about the injustice of the challenges of aging, a plea for better models of healthcare and support services for older people, a prayer for forgiveness — especially my own — when my patience runs low.  This post falls into the category of pleading for better models of healthcare and support services for older people.

Lots of clinical evidence attests to the health benefits of walking (strength, balance, release of endorphins), but I see several benefits that make me think there are more benefits than just getting out there and exercising your heart and leg muscles:

  • The outdoor connection – Getting outside provides a connection with nature that you lose if you’re confined inside your home or senior community
  • Personal validation – A “good day” provides hope and inspiration that helps to counterbalance fears that one is declining and deteriorating toward the final finish
  • Touch and community  – Walking with someone can provide a gentle moment of communion and love that feeds and sustains.

The outdoor connection:  My Dad has always been an outdoorsman — an avid game hunter, skeet shooter and fly fisherman.  I never liked to hunt, but I loved crunching through frozen wheat fields in the cold pre-dawn hours in Eastern Washington as my Dad hunted pheasant, dove, Hungarian partridge, quail or chukkar.  One of his fondest memories was hiking the Sand Ridge Trail with high school classmates near Rimrock Lake in Eastern Washington.  But for anyone, it seems unnatural and disorienting to spend your days indoors.  You miss the details that Dad always notices: new buds, bird calls, beautiful cloud formations.  When nature is removed from our world, we suffer.

Personal validation:  My Dad doesn’t have troops to order anymore, so he orders himself.  So many of our walks begin with him saying, “I think I’m gettin’ old.”  But then he regroups and starts saying things like, “C’mon, Henry.  You can do better than that.”  And when he starts to loosen up, he comments on that, too:  “That’s better.”  Not every day is a good day, or a good walk.  But when things go well, it helps him feel more confident that he is not beginning “the big slide” toward the end.  Yesterday’s walk ended with, “I’m encouraged.”

Touch and community:  A friend who did massage on the side once told a story about an elderly widow who cried after her massage.  “No one ever touched her anymore,” my friend said.  My Mom and Dad were big on hand-holding and patting one another.  Now there is no one who pats him as a part of his daily routine.  So when we walk, and Dad rests, I make it a point to put my arm around his shoulders, and give him a pat-pat-pat.  “We’re three-pat people,” he always said.

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