Thanks-Giving

We spent Thanksgiving with in my mother-in-law’s beautiful Connecticut home. Mom is an artist by profession, and her creative juices flow in the kitchen. She is a fabulous, inspired cook. I have no idea when she made all her elaborate preparations. I awoke to the smell of a roasting turkey, and the fridge was filled with delectable dishes.

It was a feast for the eyes as well as the tummy. She set her dining room table with a centerpiece of candles and fresh pears. The appetizers of shrimp cocktail and marinated shredded carrots in a proscuitto wrap perched on her best china. Homemade cranberry sauce nestled in little bowls of real blood-red oranges. Everything was scrumptious! Quite honestly, Mom is the Queen of Cuisine and needs her own show on the Food Network. She really does. She is my Hospitality Goddess.

In the midst of our gorge-festing, we took a couple hours off to go and visit Dad. He has spent the better part of his 60s living in a nursing home. Alzheimers is a thief who has robbed him of memories, intelligence, and the ability to particpate in activies of daily living. It came unannouced and uninvited almost 10 years ago, and stole many wonderful years from him. It turned Dad from an intelligent, interesting, independent gentleman who embraced life into an infant who depends on caregivers for his every need. But it couldn’t steal his spirit. The sweet, kind, gentle essence of who Dad is still remains. I can sense it.

Over the past year, Dad’s health and mental status has rapidly declined. He is forgetting how to eat, and Mom has made the prayerful decision that they won’t feed him by artificial means. At the point when Dad officially stops eating, they will allow his body to gently shut down and die. Mom is a Hospital Chaplain, and she knows what she’s doing. She has had a front seat to many a death.

So we’ve been grieving Dad’s immiment death for a while. And whenever we visit their Connecticut home, there’s a sense of loss. Dad’s presence is missed greatly. His favorite chair where he sat reading his history books remains empty. The stereo that would produce soothing classical music of his choosing is quiet. I miss watching him proudly choose the dinner wine, with his interesting trivia about its grape and vineyard. I valued his thoughtful event-planning for his grandchildren. He filled their trips to visit him with much hoopla. There are holes in our hearts, and we all felt a sense of heaviness over the holiday.

But there were treasures in the darkness. Dad has not shown any recognition of anyone for months on end. So when we entered his nursing home, we expected vacant eyes in his invalid body. It had been almost two years since we last saw him. Super Hubs walked into the room with Little Squirt. Together, they entered Dad’s line of vision and spoke to him. He started, made eye contact with his son and grandson, and his face lit up into a hug smile. And then he laughed!

The recognition lasted for just a moment, but it was a gift. He remembered his son and his grandson. Deep in the recesses of his impaired memory, he knew he loved them.

Super Hubs prayed a blessing over his father, knowing it will be the last time he will see him. And then we left, giving thanks.