A Dimension Unexplainable

I remember …

Morning sunlight coming through our living room windows, forest green, gold and black design curtains drawn, thin white draperies still in place to maintain privacy. Our four bedroom home is in Pennsylvania, near Pittsburgh. Mom and Dad are over by Dad’s desk in the large open living room connected to our dining room and then kitchen. Mom is standing behind him, wearing shorts and a top, her hand on his bare shoulder. Dad is sitting in his desk chair in his briefs, no shirt, bare feet. The living room is clean, lived in, comfortable. I know my niece is asleep upstairs, and Kolohe (our dog) and Ace (our cat) are probably with her. My sisters are far away, one in Hawaii with her husband and family, and the other, my niece’s mother, is currently on the west coast flying for Delta. It’s Sunday morning. I’m awake, having gone to the restroom, and for some reason I’ve popped myself out of my room to see my parents. I can’t remember why. I do remember the sureness of love. It is strong and deep.

“What’s your sugar?” I called to Dad.

Dad was holding an alcohol pad on one of his fingers, recently pricked, while the other hand placed his diabetes monitor on his desk, “72,” he said looking up, with Mom behind him listening.

We were all awake. It was simply coincidence. “That’s low Dad,” I said. Sometimes Dad’s sugar would run low, so this was something we had done many times before, at all hours of the day and night. It was part of our lives together. “You need to eat something … drink a glass of milk.” Dad nodded, mildly frustrated he was being forced to do something, even if it was his body applying the pressure.

“Can he have a sandwich?” Mom inquired. She always asked even though she knew he could. It was like a defense mechanism for her, as if she was just now learning the basic conditions of a person with diabetes.

I smiled, “Yah … absolutely. Anything substantial – banana and a slice of bread (one of dad’s favorites) – some meat is cool, but some carbs with it – just something.”

Mom moved to the kitchen to make Dad something to eat. Dad looked good – skin was pink, and his cheeks were rosy giving him that Santa Claus look. His silver hair, and goatee, showed the decades of life he had endured. He wore his glasses halfway down his face so he could read with them, but then look over them at us, his eyes always full of wisdom, intelligence, curiosity, love …

I worked in IT now, but had spent near a decade in EMS, so I kept checking on Dad, “How do you feel Pop? Any dizziness, shortness of breath? Any chest pain?”

Dad looked up, bottom lip sticking out a bit, a gesture he always did when he was thinking, “Nope. Maybe a little shaky,” he offered, waving his hand out in front of him to show me his hand was a ‘little shaky’.

“You know what year it is?” I followed through.

Dad piddled around on the desk moving aside his diabetic paraphernalia, creating a space for whatever Mom was making him. He unwrapped a butterscotch candy. “The year is two thousand and thirteen,” he pronounced annunciating the consonants. He looked up and smiled at me, popping the candy into his mouth. Dad spoke like that sometimes when he was very sure of his answers. It made me chuckle.

“Yep you got it Pop.” I loved his playful soul.

Mom returned with a bologna sandwich, lettuce, tomato and mayo, and a glass of 2% milk. Dad began to eat. Mom and I watched Dad eat. We were always concerned when his sugar would fall low, but Dad was ok, and now he was getting some food into him. Mom sat down in a nearby desk chair.

“We’ll take your sugar again when you pau eat,” I said. Pau means ‘no longer’ in Hawaiian. My Mom was full-blood Hawaiian born in Honolulu, Hawaii a little more than a month before Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. Dad was full-blood North Carolina Caucasian, but he had spent 32 years in the US Navy, met Mom in San Diego CA., and together built a family that spent many of our years on the islands. Often, Hawaiian words would be included in our talk around home.

Dad flashed me the ‘shaka’ sign (fist closed with thumb and pinky extended out – rotating the wrist left and right) while eating his sandwich. The word ‘shaka’ is really Hawaiian pidgin slang for ‘shock them’. The sign, and its meaning, have transcended globally into affirming anything as ‘positive’.

I was happy it was Sunday. Game day. “Steelers play at 1pm,” I informed Dad. He nodded while chewing. Dad and I loved watching the Steelers play ball.

“I’m not a fan,” stated Mom flatly. She sat back in her chair, proud of herself. It was what she always said when we spoke of the Steelers or the Penguins, Pittsburgh’s champion football and hockey teams respectively. Mom really enjoyed informing us that she wasn’t a fan of our teams. She especially liked making fun of our emotional outbursts if the game wasn’t going our way. It was her way of saying ‘I don’t know why you get yourselves so worked up’.

“Sunday – fun day,” Dad mumbled around his food. He smiled at me again as he took a drink of milk.

A few minutes later, Dad’s sugar was 156, and we all felt good about that.

I yawned, “Alright, Mom and Dad – I’m gonna head back down for a bit, but I’ll be up for the game,” I let them know. “I love you. Dad, I’ll wake you up for the game if you’re still asleep.”

Dad was finishing his sandwich, “Ok. Love you too son.”

“Love you Craig. I’m going back down too,” Mom agreed.

Dad wiped his mouth with a napkin Mom had given him. “Ok,” he raised his eyebrows, “I guess I’ll go back down too.” If Dad had his way, we would never sleep until we collapsed in absolute exhaustion. He would fill up every moment of time with doing something. But, more than anything, he loved my Mom, and if she was going to lay back down for a bit, then it was probably a sure bet that Dad was going to lay down too.

I turned and walked back to my room, Mom and Dad starting to move away from their desks in the living room. I called, “Good night,” and they answered back with the same. We said good night even though it wasn’t nighttime.

That was the last time I would speak with my Dad. He passed away that day in 2013. November 17, 2013. I hate that day.

But … I’ve come to love the memory – that moment in time - I cherish it – I hold it close. I’ve meditated on it so many times, transfixed, suspended in that space forever, moving through it with all my senses – feeling the blue sky I can see through the windows – through the draperies – seeing my strong father vulnerable and so alive – the scent of the house, wood floors and furniture all around me – the confidence that everything was in place and all important things were in good order. My mother’s loving attention for my father. In the early days I would clutch at this memory, always slipping from my hands as time moved forward in my life, always moving forward while I was stuck. This is how I explain grief. It is impossible to move forward, but time is merciless, and simply moves you forward into the next moment without your permission. So, now you’re displaced. You don’t belong here – you belong there! And then time moves you again into a further moment away. And then again.

So, now this is life … being forever slammed into the future while your heart and soul are stuck in a moment of the past, forever clinging onto the sweet … sweet love of …

It took a long time, but it is true that a time comes when memories become so loved and so dear to you. And, so it is that these days … this memory lovingly sits in its space – a dimension unexplainable - by the grace of God - always waiting for me to visit and spend time with Dad again.