The Time Has Come

He lifted the pillow off of my head and the stark light from the adjoining kitchen poured in. “Your brother Clay called,” my husband said, “Your dad is in the ER in Dillon.” I sat up. The night before my brother Kent had called to tell me my dad was staying overnight at the Motel 6 in Dillon, Montana. Just the week prior, he’d left my mom in Arizona and driven to the Washington coast and back. After a few days rest, he’d told her he was headed to Montana to look for a place to live in Polson. I got Clay on the phone. “Dad’s OK sis, but the police brought him into the ER last night…..”

Within 30-minutes we were on the road. Jim took the first leg to Harlowton. We tried to use humor, as we so often do, to make the best out of things. “You need to call in a situation report to the family,” I said, “But, we need to give my dad a code name, what could that be?” “Are you kidding, me?” my husband asked, “He’s fucking Bowe Bergdahl – he abandoned his post.” We laughed. But, he was right. Dad had abandoned my mom, taken his dog and headed for all that he knew – Montana. His prior trip to the Washington coast had failed to uncover whatever it was he was seeking. His mind now told him that was in Montana.

I’d seen this scenario played out too many times to remember over the past 30-years, since my dad had retired from teaching. With the kids out of the nest, my parents had never really settled into retirement as some folks can do. Instead, they’d moved restlessly from place to place looking for something they would never find. I’ve only recently realized what they are seeking is that time we had together, those years in a house full of kids, laughter, and love. Times were simpler then. Who they were was defined by the simple need to provide – to put food on the table, clothing on our backs, and shelter over our heads. It was this responsibility that bound and defined them for most of their years. When that responsibility disappeared, they lost their identity and I don’t think they’ve ever figured out a definition of who they are without us kids and that life we shared.

His eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt, and his feet were dangling over the hospital bed like a little kid. The fear in his eyes drew me to him and I grabbed him as tightly as I could. “I got you dad,” I kept saying over and over. “I got you.” Because I know what it is to be all alone in this world and the comfort those three words can provide. His steely grip had not changed, but I could feel his emotional and mental frailty. “What did I do sis?” he asked, as I stepped back and looked deep into his bloodshot eyes, trying to ground and comfort him with my gaze. “Did I kill someone?” he asked. He thought he’d killed someone with his car. “No dad,” I said, “You didn’t hurt anyone. The police pulled you over for erratic driving.” He stared back at me in confusion and I had to resort to waving my hand in a zig-zag fashion to explain what he was doing with his car when the police pulled him over. “Well, that’s because there were kids in the road,” he said, “they were naked and they were running everywhere.”

The storm we’d passed through on the way down hit us hard on the way back and I had to slow as it passed through the Tobacco Root Mountains outside of Butte. I was leading Jim home, who was driving my dad’s little truck behind me. I hoped that dad would sleep, and rest his tormented mind, but he couldn’t. Instead, he tried to recall for me over and over the events of the prior night. “It was the craziest thing, sis,” he said, “There were these kids and they were dressed like light poles and bushes and street signs. It was the craziest damn parade you ever saw – but, it was kind of cool.” As we drove on, he slipped in and out of trying to sort out the events that brought him to me, and sliding into the distant past, a place where his memory was more comfortable.

In the back of my dad’s truck, in a little cooler packed full of ice, was his dead Yorky dog, Molly. Somehow, in the events of the prior evening, he’d lost his little companion. If I’m able to understand it all, he arrived at the Motel 6 very distraught because Molly was not doing well. He put her in the room along with his stuff and went back to the truck to get more. In the process he locked himself out of the room. When he banged on the door of the neighbor’s room, they called the police. The police arrived and pronounced the dog dead. The police left and afterwards, at some point, he left the hotel and got in the car. I’m still not clear why he was driving or where he was going. But, it’s all immaterial now, except to Molly.

Jim, exhausted from the 11-hour drive the previous day, arose early to dig a grave for Molly. He selected a spot in our back pasture, at the base of a tree, with large rocks to place over her grave. When he was ready he came and got us. As we stood by the grave, I waited for the father I knew to come out. He was never a man at a loss for words, especially in a situation like this. So, I stood, and soon he spoke, but it was not a eulogy for Molly. Instead, it was a lengthy oratory full of the venom that filled his mind, a seething line of disgust at the people who he believed had poisoned her. When he was done, I sobbed from the very core of my being, great heaving sobs of pain. I cried for Molly, for that tiny little being who had trusted him with her livelihood. I cried for the man that I had known.

Life, it’s unexpected. It brings storms that shake you to your core as sure as it brings comforting sunshine that fills you with strength and security. I did not see this storm coming, despite the thunder clouds that were rolling on the horizon for many years. The stories my mom had told me were easily discounted, attributable to their unhappiness with their life situation. My little brother, who spent the most time with them, confirmed the forecast, but I chose to ignore it, believing he was simply siding with my mom. Regardless of the past, here I sit, and I am suddenly the parent.

My heart tells me to get my dad a little place to live here in town. I can supervise him to ensure he’s eating right, taking his medicine, getting some exercise, and socializing with other adults his age. Afterall, I took him to our Presbyterian church on Sunday and he had a grand ‘ole time at the coffee hour afterwards. Couldn’t I take him down to the art center where maybe he could teach a class and Jim could take him to his “old man” lunch each week? He’d be nearby to go to the kids’ sporting and school events. I know he’d love that and it would be a real gift to the kids to know their grandpa and have him close.

But, I’ve got my hands full as it is. My husband is gone a third of the time for work and I’ve got four kids, three dogs, a cat, and a horse to take care of, not to mention a job. I also do volunteer work with a non-profit agency and hold a local position that demands much of my time. I could abdicate those responsibilities, however, and all that would remain would be my everyday duties and my work. If I don’t do these things and follow my heart, then nothing remains but to put my dad in an assisted care facility.

The storm is here and it is within me. The time has come.