In order to understand the kind of person my Dad is today, you must understand the kind of person he has been since early childhood. He has always been a very headstrong, driven individual, focused on making his dreams a reality...and no dream was too unrealistic to consider. When dad was 5 years old his hero was Superman. He loved pretending to be Superman so much that my grandmother made him a Superman suit out of long johns and extra fabric. Dad was so excited he donned his new suit and convinced himself he was now capable of breaking through walls. He then proceeded to knock himself unconscious...TWICE...trying to burst through the side of the house. Did that curb his determination? Not in the least. When he came to, he proceeded to scold my grandmother! She didn't make the suit right...the cape shouldn't be tied on, it should be sewn to the shoulders of the suit. She humored him and corrected her "mistake"....after which he decided it was time for his first Superman flight. He got on a ladder and jumped off the roof....fortunately one story. It really is a wonder he survived childhood with his determination and stubborn streak. Gramma must have been a very patient woman, and I know he adored her because he frequently credited her as the source of his intellect.
By the time he was 12 he already knew what he wanted in life and made a list. I remember him telling me about the list and a few things that were on it:
Become a Doctor
Build and Fly Airplanes
Become a Falconer
Get married and have children
Dad excelled at everything. No subject seemed to challenge him and he rarely did homework but he aced nearly every test. He looked a lot like a young Elvis Presley, handsome, tall and fine featured. Dad also was an admirable athlete, focused mostly on football and boxing. He briefly fought professionally using an alias, Bobby Hogan, but decided his brain was too valuable to allow it to be destroyed with head shots. Dad also was a wonderful artist and did the sketch that became the cover of his high school year book.
My grand parents did not approve of his plans for the future, and made it very clear that they would not be paying for med school. True to form, he did not take this news as anything more then a bump in the road. His college career was so impressive that he was accepted to med school early, having never actually received his bachelor's degree. My mom and dad both worked long hours while having children and putting dad through med school. It all paid off in the long run. Dad became a plastic and reconstructive surgeon just as he planned.
By the time I was born, Dad was building his first biplane. The whole family was involved in it's construction. As a toddler I would wander through his workshop stealing handfuls of clecos (temporary metal fasteners commonly used in the construction and repair of aircraft), earning myself the nickname "The Cleco Kid". When it was finally complete, I can recall accompanying dad to the hanger and watching him prop start his plane and jump in. It was quite a sight. He would grab the upper blade with both hands, kick one leg up for extra torque and then yank the propeller down, jumping clear as the engine sputtered and then screamed to a start.. Even then I remember being afraid he would be hit by the spinning propeller when it started...but he always jumped safely out of the way and nimbly into the cockpit. He would sometimes take me for rides down the runway although I don't recall him ever actually taking me up. Even so, the memory has stayed with me as a unique part of my childhood.
After the biplane he built a few experimental aircraft, most of which never flew but were the source of some truly spectacular crashes. One of these crashes made a gash in dad's hand that required stitches. I have a vivid memory of him sitting at the kitchen table sewing his own hand closed. To paraphrase Dennis Leary, all of us kids looked at each other as if to say, "That's it. We can never cry again."
He opened a private plastic surgical practice in the early '70s and as his practice took off, he used the money to shower mom with designer gowns and jewelry and to indulge in his own very expensive hobbies. We moved into a large house, almost a mansion, when I was 3 years old. Since I have very little memory of life before that house, it seemed completely normal to me. I always found it strange that one of my friends refused to spend the night in my house for fear that it would be haunted. When you are in grade school, I guess all big houses are mansions and of course all mansions are haunted. It never occurred to me that we were well off since my parents were completely lacking in pretension. Dad never golfed or wore fancy clothes. Mom did all her own gardening, shopped for our school clothes at K-mart, clipped coupons and made a lot of the drapery and decor in our house by hand. They briefly belonged to a country club, I think because that's what doctors and their wives were supposed to do. My mom enjoyed playing tennis; she was actually quite good. We kids often went swimming in the club pool. They ended their membership after a few years, though. My parents just weren't that social. The few things we did at the country club could be done just as easily at a public facility at far less expense. It really was a waste of money from their point of view.
It was not until I was 14 that I realized how wealthy my parents might actually be. I was coming home after a speech tournament and was dropped off at my house by another parent in a carload of my school mates. The kids all stared out the car window. "Is THAT your HOUSE???" "Whoa! Erin's RICH!!", they started exclaiming. "Nah, I'm not rich...", I started to say. Then for the first time I looked objectively at my house by comparison to my friends' homes and it hit me. "Holy shit! I AM rich!" I thought. "Why the hell are we shopping at K-mart???" There was actually a simple explanation: my mom grew up in the ghetto, one of nine children born to an immigrant couple from Czechoslovakia. As such, she was extremely frugal...dad used to say it was to the point of neurosis. She absolutely could not throw away anything, particularly food. She grew up scraping for every meal, washing off discarded candy she found in the street. Nothing was ever wasted and there were harsh punishments for not finishing a meal. As a result, her habits were so ingrained in who she was that Mom never fully adjusted to having money to spare.
Sometimes her inability to throw things away could be quite comical. Once I opened the refrigerator to get a drink and there on one of the shelves was a little plastic scooper Mom had saved from a can of powdered drink mix. Inside the little scooper was some water and two little pieces of a green bean. The two pieces together didn't even add up to a whole bean! I was laughing so hard that when Dad came into the kitchen with mom and asked what was so funny all I could do was point to the little scooper. Dad looked at it, looked at mom, looked at me, then picked it up and handed it to me with two words, "Save her!"
It was this unusual pair that built a wonderful and richly fulfilling life together: Dad with his exciting and costly hobbies and mom with her creative and frugal ones. Her common sense brought balance to his whimsical impulses. They were truly a match made in heaven.
While I was still in grade school Dad began his next hobby: falconry. He started with one bird, a great horned owl who he named Eddie after Eddie Cantor. Eddie lived in our garage. Orphaned as a baby, dad adopted him while he still had his downy feathers. As he matured his markings were beautiful with a full white beard surrounded by black and brown feathers. Our garage was connected to the house by a long hall that led directly to my parents bedroom and adjoined a shorter hall leading to the living room. Dad delighted in leaving the door to the hallway opened, knowing his feathered friend would be unable to resist the urge to venture out to look for him. Dad would wait in a chair in the living room with a clear view of the place where the two hallways connected. Eddie would come trotting down the hall and peek around the corner, focusing his large, yellow eyes as he did so. "Eddie!" Dad would jokingly scold him,"What are you doing, son?? Get back in the garage!" But Eddie would just run into my parents' bedroom, against my mother's loud protests, take off and land on a lampshade, poking holes through the fabric. Dad allowed all of this because he thought it was hilarious and not-so-secretly because he wanted to drive my mother crazy. It worked like a charm.
Dad continued this hobby for over a decade. When my friends gave their parents directions to my house they described it as "the big corner house with the eagle/hawk/owl in the yard...no, not a statue, a REAL one!" Different birds came and went, their stays ranging from a few days to years. Dad usually had more then one bird of prey at any given time. Usually when birds were brought to our home it was because they had been shot or orphaned. Some tragedy would put them in our custody and dad would rehabilitate these birds both surgically and through daily care. He worked with wild life organizations to help repopulate endangered raptors and protect them from hunters and others who would do them harm. Much of his disposable income went toward the birds. Eventually his operation became too draining and he had to re-home the birds in his care. It was time to move on to less taxing and less expensive hobbies.
By the time I reached my thirties, Dad had accomplished everything on his original list of goals and so much more. He is a shining example of what we can accomplish if we put our minds to it, of how to push past any challenges undaunted and succeed at anything. He is a hero, a scholar, a dreamer, and a teacher...the greatest triumph of the human spirit that I will ever have the honor to witness first hand.
When Dad was nearing retirement they decided to build their last house. They actually built it around an existing house on a large piece of land. Mom did most of the designing of the house, making sure a special study was built just for Dad and his airplanes and models. What would normally be the garage was connected to the house with a car port in between. The garage was his workshop, filled with works in progress, tools and equipment. I don't know everything he had planned for his retirement, but I know he didn't plan on doing it without Mom. He saw his study and workshop as tangible manifests of her love for him. Those rooms are the root of his attachment to this house. She was his other half and her death was an unexpected and devastating loss.
Considering all of this, we started his journey through Alzheimer's with a decidedly stubborn and independent patient. Alzheimer's patients often become more stubborn and outspoken as the disease progresses. For many caregivers the challenge is easing their loved ones into a life in which control is slowly taken away. We were not allowed to gradually become accustomed to the stubbornness that develops with the advancement of the illness...we started there from day one.
Maintaining balance and weathering the daily storms can be a real balancing act. The most important thing has been to keep Dad safe while allowing him his dignity. He has fought us tooth and nail on nearly every issue but, in spite of everything, he loves us and at least for now knows we are looking out for him.
(to be continued)
By the time he was 12 he already knew what he wanted in life and made a list. I remember him telling me about the list and a few things that were on it:
Become a Doctor
Build and Fly Airplanes
Become a Falconer
Get married and have children
Dad excelled at everything. No subject seemed to challenge him and he rarely did homework but he aced nearly every test. He looked a lot like a young Elvis Presley, handsome, tall and fine featured. Dad also was an admirable athlete, focused mostly on football and boxing. He briefly fought professionally using an alias, Bobby Hogan, but decided his brain was too valuable to allow it to be destroyed with head shots. Dad also was a wonderful artist and did the sketch that became the cover of his high school year book.
My grand parents did not approve of his plans for the future, and made it very clear that they would not be paying for med school. True to form, he did not take this news as anything more then a bump in the road. His college career was so impressive that he was accepted to med school early, having never actually received his bachelor's degree. My mom and dad both worked long hours while having children and putting dad through med school. It all paid off in the long run. Dad became a plastic and reconstructive surgeon just as he planned.
By the time I was born, Dad was building his first biplane. The whole family was involved in it's construction. As a toddler I would wander through his workshop stealing handfuls of clecos (temporary metal fasteners commonly used in the construction and repair of aircraft), earning myself the nickname "The Cleco Kid". When it was finally complete, I can recall accompanying dad to the hanger and watching him prop start his plane and jump in. It was quite a sight. He would grab the upper blade with both hands, kick one leg up for extra torque and then yank the propeller down, jumping clear as the engine sputtered and then screamed to a start.. Even then I remember being afraid he would be hit by the spinning propeller when it started...but he always jumped safely out of the way and nimbly into the cockpit. He would sometimes take me for rides down the runway although I don't recall him ever actually taking me up. Even so, the memory has stayed with me as a unique part of my childhood.
After the biplane he built a few experimental aircraft, most of which never flew but were the source of some truly spectacular crashes. One of these crashes made a gash in dad's hand that required stitches. I have a vivid memory of him sitting at the kitchen table sewing his own hand closed. To paraphrase Dennis Leary, all of us kids looked at each other as if to say, "That's it. We can never cry again."
He opened a private plastic surgical practice in the early '70s and as his practice took off, he used the money to shower mom with designer gowns and jewelry and to indulge in his own very expensive hobbies. We moved into a large house, almost a mansion, when I was 3 years old. Since I have very little memory of life before that house, it seemed completely normal to me. I always found it strange that one of my friends refused to spend the night in my house for fear that it would be haunted. When you are in grade school, I guess all big houses are mansions and of course all mansions are haunted. It never occurred to me that we were well off since my parents were completely lacking in pretension. Dad never golfed or wore fancy clothes. Mom did all her own gardening, shopped for our school clothes at K-mart, clipped coupons and made a lot of the drapery and decor in our house by hand. They briefly belonged to a country club, I think because that's what doctors and their wives were supposed to do. My mom enjoyed playing tennis; she was actually quite good. We kids often went swimming in the club pool. They ended their membership after a few years, though. My parents just weren't that social. The few things we did at the country club could be done just as easily at a public facility at far less expense. It really was a waste of money from their point of view.
It was not until I was 14 that I realized how wealthy my parents might actually be. I was coming home after a speech tournament and was dropped off at my house by another parent in a carload of my school mates. The kids all stared out the car window. "Is THAT your HOUSE???" "Whoa! Erin's RICH!!", they started exclaiming. "Nah, I'm not rich...", I started to say. Then for the first time I looked objectively at my house by comparison to my friends' homes and it hit me. "Holy shit! I AM rich!" I thought. "Why the hell are we shopping at K-mart???" There was actually a simple explanation: my mom grew up in the ghetto, one of nine children born to an immigrant couple from Czechoslovakia. As such, she was extremely frugal...dad used to say it was to the point of neurosis. She absolutely could not throw away anything, particularly food. She grew up scraping for every meal, washing off discarded candy she found in the street. Nothing was ever wasted and there were harsh punishments for not finishing a meal. As a result, her habits were so ingrained in who she was that Mom never fully adjusted to having money to spare.
Sometimes her inability to throw things away could be quite comical. Once I opened the refrigerator to get a drink and there on one of the shelves was a little plastic scooper Mom had saved from a can of powdered drink mix. Inside the little scooper was some water and two little pieces of a green bean. The two pieces together didn't even add up to a whole bean! I was laughing so hard that when Dad came into the kitchen with mom and asked what was so funny all I could do was point to the little scooper. Dad looked at it, looked at mom, looked at me, then picked it up and handed it to me with two words, "Save her!"
It was this unusual pair that built a wonderful and richly fulfilling life together: Dad with his exciting and costly hobbies and mom with her creative and frugal ones. Her common sense brought balance to his whimsical impulses. They were truly a match made in heaven.
While I was still in grade school Dad began his next hobby: falconry. He started with one bird, a great horned owl who he named Eddie after Eddie Cantor. Eddie lived in our garage. Orphaned as a baby, dad adopted him while he still had his downy feathers. As he matured his markings were beautiful with a full white beard surrounded by black and brown feathers. Our garage was connected to the house by a long hall that led directly to my parents bedroom and adjoined a shorter hall leading to the living room. Dad delighted in leaving the door to the hallway opened, knowing his feathered friend would be unable to resist the urge to venture out to look for him. Dad would wait in a chair in the living room with a clear view of the place where the two hallways connected. Eddie would come trotting down the hall and peek around the corner, focusing his large, yellow eyes as he did so. "Eddie!" Dad would jokingly scold him,"What are you doing, son?? Get back in the garage!" But Eddie would just run into my parents' bedroom, against my mother's loud protests, take off and land on a lampshade, poking holes through the fabric. Dad allowed all of this because he thought it was hilarious and not-so-secretly because he wanted to drive my mother crazy. It worked like a charm.
Dad continued this hobby for over a decade. When my friends gave their parents directions to my house they described it as "the big corner house with the eagle/hawk/owl in the yard...no, not a statue, a REAL one!" Different birds came and went, their stays ranging from a few days to years. Dad usually had more then one bird of prey at any given time. Usually when birds were brought to our home it was because they had been shot or orphaned. Some tragedy would put them in our custody and dad would rehabilitate these birds both surgically and through daily care. He worked with wild life organizations to help repopulate endangered raptors and protect them from hunters and others who would do them harm. Much of his disposable income went toward the birds. Eventually his operation became too draining and he had to re-home the birds in his care. It was time to move on to less taxing and less expensive hobbies.
By the time I reached my thirties, Dad had accomplished everything on his original list of goals and so much more. He is a shining example of what we can accomplish if we put our minds to it, of how to push past any challenges undaunted and succeed at anything. He is a hero, a scholar, a dreamer, and a teacher...the greatest triumph of the human spirit that I will ever have the honor to witness first hand.
When Dad was nearing retirement they decided to build their last house. They actually built it around an existing house on a large piece of land. Mom did most of the designing of the house, making sure a special study was built just for Dad and his airplanes and models. What would normally be the garage was connected to the house with a car port in between. The garage was his workshop, filled with works in progress, tools and equipment. I don't know everything he had planned for his retirement, but I know he didn't plan on doing it without Mom. He saw his study and workshop as tangible manifests of her love for him. Those rooms are the root of his attachment to this house. She was his other half and her death was an unexpected and devastating loss.
Considering all of this, we started his journey through Alzheimer's with a decidedly stubborn and independent patient. Alzheimer's patients often become more stubborn and outspoken as the disease progresses. For many caregivers the challenge is easing their loved ones into a life in which control is slowly taken away. We were not allowed to gradually become accustomed to the stubbornness that develops with the advancement of the illness...we started there from day one.
Maintaining balance and weathering the daily storms can be a real balancing act. The most important thing has been to keep Dad safe while allowing him his dignity. He has fought us tooth and nail on nearly every issue but, in spite of everything, he loves us and at least for now knows we are looking out for him.
(to be continued)
No comments:
Post a Comment