This is the first weekend since my father, Bill, died where I did not find myself planning to go see him after a morning hike with good friends. I realized how much I’ve learned from him and my recently departed mother-in-law Lydia in the past few years. 

For decades, I’ve proudly told others that my father taught me how to dig a ditch properly. 

You don’t want to get a shovel full of dirt and lose half of it, only to lift it again. There is a proper technique. He also taught me that it okay, even laudable, to rest in the shade on a very hot day toiling in the field. It’s not being lazy. It’s smart, healthy, and a good example to set. 

Both Bill and Lydia died from Alzheimer’s Disease. It runs in my family so I assume it’s my most likely cause of natural death. I’m not exactly obsessed about it – at least I wouldn’t call it obsession – but I have considered my options at finding the shortest path between diagnosis (of AD) and death. I’ve made it clear I would prefer to die of the very next illness after AD is diagnosed. Why? I don’t want to spend a decade needing assistance only to curl up and die in bed. I don’t want to inflict a burden of effort – emotional or otherwise – on others. I don’t want to spend anyone’s healthcare dollars or resources if I have AD. I believe it’s fine ethically, spiritually, and rationally to take my position on this. 

Bill and Lydia shed some light on this for me. 

Lydia had expressed a clear and consistent wish to die for years, more so after she was snatched from the jaws of death a few years ago when a well-meaning neighbor saw her collapse in the yard, called 911, and whisked her away to the ER to be “saved”. She was NOT PLEASED! She had already made her wishes made, AND she was taken away from a gloriously peaceful place she experienced as others struggled to bring her back. 

More recently, in the same breath, she would tell us “I just want to die, and I’m ready. I hurt and I can’t think straight,” on the one hand, while on the other hand say “I love my life. I enjoy this place and the people are so nice. I’m so happy to see Sandy every time she’s here. She is so good to me.” 

How could that be? 

I believe they were both true, both clear-headed, and both rational.  Yes, life carried a large burden of pain and suffering that would not improve. Yes, the time she spent with those who loved her was full of joy. But the burden was outweighing the joy. 

Bill, on the other hand, had slowly faded cognitively so that he no longer recognized any of us. We could tell he enjoyed eating. He might take your food if you didn’t watch out. He smiled when others treated him with kindness and respect, which seemed like always to both of us. So I’d categorize him as pleasantly demented – maybe even happily demented. Would someone who is pleasantly demented want to die? I would. I’ve considered the burden on loved ones and on society, and my choice would be to lighten those burdens even if was happy or happily oblivious in the face of AD. 

Some day, my family and my physicians will be considering my wishes. 

I’ve expressed them here. I don’t expect them to change. I’ve considered them in light of what I’ve learned from these wise parents, who taught me so much. 

At the funeral, the only time the urge to cry expressed itself was singing a particular verse of one of the hymns, How Great Thou Art. This was one of the songs my father had sung as a solo for others in my position, being comforted and supported by a community of friends and faithful on a day of final loss. Accompanied by the same organ, reading from the same hymnal, in the same choir loft that he and I stood in 50 years ago singing side by side. 

I think the sadness flowed when I pictured my father singing this now, about himself, for us all to hear in our imaginations. "I'm going home!" How easy to see him bow in humble surrender. And rise with a great beaming, familiar smile.

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation

And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart

Then I shall bow, in humble adoration

And then proclaim: "My God, how great Thou art!"

I'm sure it was the overflowing joy from my father's heart that washed over mine. That brought the tears. That invited surrender. 

The love of Jesus was washing over Bill Belden, and all those around him there. The faith of our fathers.

Life is what happens when you have other plans. 

I wanted to wrap familiarity and comfort around this day. I have the memory of long reflective bike rides accross the flat prairie of Central Illinois with an open, receptive mind. A memory of a few inspirational words that hang a framework. Of the quiet delight and soothing satisfaction of saying what I want to say. What I need to say. Sitting in Joe Sipper's Cafe in Effingham. Satisfied, and a little more complete. Finding meaning in life's major events.

Perhaps it is not to be today. I don't really feel inspired. I'm plagued by little details that want clarification. Did we contact the pallbearers? We did not. A few calls and we're done. 

Who picks up the funeral fliers from the printer in Effingham to deliver to St. Elmo? Was that clear? Will anyone? Should I call now? It's too early.

Will I cry? Yes, maybe. I have nice tight compartments, rated waterproof. We'll see if they will withstand the immersion. I don't really mind if people around me, who knew me, who loved me, who still love me, see me wet with tears. 

Today, a farewell. Farewells. To my father, Billy Lee Belden. To St. Elmo. Will I return? To Joe Sipper's? Is this the last bit of prairie writing?

Or does the Maker have other plans? 

[originally written April 19, 2015.] 

My father's Alzheimer's disease would now be called moderate. His experience of the world is less precise, less clear. His memories are no longer worlds of words, but fields of feelings.

Three years ago, he first told me the name of his Japanese girlfriend from when he was stationed in postwar Japan. Or one year ago, he remembered that his granddaughter's name was Violet, and it was she who frolicked on the hillside with her soccerball. That same year, he remembered the specific trees where we saw the amorous squirrels mating.

Now, that hillside is a misty memory about little girls. Those trees are about special squirrels.

We both still enjoy walking together in the park. He doesn't seem to remember my identity, but he speaks kindly of "Jeff" as someone special to him.

Today it was raining. Instead of going to the park for a walk, we went for a ride in the country. It has been decades since I was a child and my family would go for a Sunday drive in the country, when gasoline was cheap. The roads today were unfamiliar to me, as if I was the one losing memories.

But the experience was quite pleasant overall, as we drove through fields of feelings.