A life without memories

Rochester, New York USA

November 2005

I used to measure the worth of my life by the memories I created. Half of my adventures have been fueled from pure joy, while the other half have been fueled by pure terror of an unlived life; a life made up of a series of forgotten days; never to be remembered again. After all, what is a life without memories?

In October 2003 I lost my home and all my possessions in the San Diego Cedar Fire. It took over two years to rebuild the house, but FINALLY move-in day was on the calendar, along with an epic housewarming party in a completely empty, just-built home.

It was now just two weeks before our housewarming party when I got the call from my mom. My dad was in the hospital and had aspirated pneumonia; one of the inevitable outcomes of his long struggle with Alzheimer's. Over the previous six months he had lost all ability to communicate and could only sit and stare in his mental prison, and now his body was unable to properly swallow food or liquids.

“We have been able to get the fluid from his lungs, and he will recover from pneumonia, but unfortunately this is just the beginning; it WILL happen again and again,” informed the Doctor.

Within a day I flew to New York to be with my mom as she struggled with the most difficult decision of her life: whether or not to keep him hooked up to tubes, or allow him to die. My sister and brother were also making plans to come to his bedside. I held my Mom's fragile hand and we looked at my drugged and dying father; he was clearly suffering, despite the pain medicine he still looked confused and disoriented; tubes were stuck up his nostrils, and he seemed to have no awareness that we were in the room. I reflected on this once proud and athletic man, who I loved with all my heart.

“He didn’t deserve this,” I thought sadly. His body was now a weak bag of flesh and bones. A single tear escaped down my cheek. I needed to be strong for my mom, and for my dad.

The decision was made and my Dad was to be transferred to the hospice home the next day, and we were free to go home and rest. As we drove home, each moment felt surreal. I thought to myself, “So, this is it. The death of a parent. The final chapter my dad’s life.” I didn’t know quite what to feel. With Alzheimer’s you lose your loved one many years before they actually leave their physical body, and you lose them in little pieces at a time, never able to fully mourn until the final passing. This can take years. I was grateful that my dad was soon to be released from his cruel suffering, and grateful to finally be able to mourn our loss.

The next day my sister, Paula and niece Taylor arrived. My sister began the process of writing a eulogy and creating a video to show at my dad’s memorial. The Doctor had said it could take 10-14 days for my dad to pass, and so we spent full days in the hospice home, taking turns bedside with my dad, and late evenings at home reminiscing as we sorted through boxes with a lifetime of family photos. Next, my brother arrived from San Francisco, and joined the vigil.

Meanwhile, back in San Diego, my friends from around the country and as far as England were beginning to arrive for our housewarming party. Of course, they understood my absence, and my then-husband Milton took on the task of full-time host. I called home and listened to the sounds of reunion and celebration. It pulled me in.

“Maybe I can fly back for just one night,” I suggested to Milt. Our hospice vigil was going on Day 9 and I could use a 12-hour break to focus on something other than death and loss. I decided to fly back to San Diego early the next morning, and then return on the red-eye that same evening.

My brother dropped me off at the airport in New York. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “Yes, I need to do this.” I felt certain.

My short visit back to San Diego and our housewarming party was bitter sweet. The house was still empty except for a new sofa and TV that was delivered while I was in New York. Aside from the empty rooms, the house was filled with the high spirits of a dozen friends and supporters. That evening we gathered together to watch a video my sister had made to commemorate the Cedar Fire. It included footage of my dogs in the back of the vehicles, live news reports during the fire, and footage of my first view of the burnt house including me digging through the still hot ash, searching for anything salvageable. She had put the video to a song, “The Long Day is Over,” which poignantly captured what it now felt like to be standing in my rebuilt home. Finally, after two long unsettled years, the nightmare of the Cedar Fire was done.

As I watched the video I began to cry. My friends tried to reassure me, that everything was going to be alright. I felt a supportive hand on my shoulder.

I wiped away a sleeve of tears and turned to my friends. “Thank you everyone but you mis-understand.” I said. “I am not crying tears of sadness. I am crying because I am watching this video from my NEW home. The long day is finally over.”

After dinner, I returned to the airport to catch my red-eye back to New York. While I was waiting to board the plane, my mom called me on my cell phone. “Laura, Dad is gone. He passed about 30 minutes ago.”

“Thanks mom,” I said. Silence. There were no words to be said. There were no words needed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

My Dad’s memorial was two days later. The memorial was not heavily attended; perhaps a dozen of his friends and former work colleagues were present. But truly none of that mattered. In the front of the room gathered his wife and children, and our spirits filled the entire room. I listened to the Eulogy written my my sister, and felt deep joy for the amazing and well lived life of a most remarkable, kind, hard working family man, who did not live a life of grand adventure, but one in which each day was about his family, loving his wife, and being home each evening at 5:30 pm, to have dinner with the kids.

Before this experience, I used to measure the worth of my life by the memories I had. People often gave me encouragement about my fire loss by saying, "well at least you have your memories." But now it is clear that memories, and time with the people you love, is more fragile than the things I lost in the Cedar Fire. Yes, we create memories, and although I didn't hold my father's hand as he passed, his memory lives in me daily (we have lots of talks), but I do know, sadly, that even those precious memories may fade in time in my own mind.

So what do I do with this truth? First, hold the hand! Secondly, experience each moment as present as you can be; no regrets. Because, when all is said and done, all we ever have is the precious amazing moment of right NOW. Cherish it, memories or not, before our beautiful long day is over.

Becoming Nomad.

A note I found from my Dad after his death.