The ants and the in-between

 It begins

I suppose it really begins January 11, 1943, the day of my father’s birth. That’s how we summarize life, right? Year of birth, year of death.

And a dash for the lifetime in between.

On Sunday, May 15, 2022, I’m not thinking about dates, hyphens, or my father.

I’m thinking about ants.

“Damn it, I can’t figure out where they are coming from.”

I stand motionless by the kitchen sink, holding my breath, scanning the mottled marble countertop for signs of motion. Gradually, my eyes adjust to see the tiny scurrying insects camouflaged against the dark polished stone. I aim the cleaning spray at the counter and pull the nozzle, emptying a stream of bleachy liquid onto the ant parade below. As I wipe away the evidence of my carnage with a paper towel, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Missed call from Dad.

Cell phones

I don’t remember exactly when Dad finally got a cell phone, but it seemed long past the rest of the world. Even now, he doesn’t use it, except to make the occasional phone call, after which, he promptly turns it off. Sure enough, when I try to call him back, it goes straight to voicemail. We play a little game of phone tag before we finally connect.

“Hey there Allison, how are you?” I hear his familiar voice. After a few pleasantries, he gets to the point of the call. “I’ve been having some trouble breathing lately. A few years back, the doctor told me it’s pulmonary fibrosis. The doctor’s put me on oxygen 24-7. So, it’s a big adjustment. Carolyn’s helping me.”

Research

I spend an hour in front of the computer reading about idiopathic (no known cause) pulmonary (occurring in the lung) fibrosis (excess fibrous connective tissue). IPF. One website says the life expectancy is 2-5 years after diagnosis.

I close the laptop in frustration.

How long has Dad had IPF? Why didn’t he tell me before now? Homebound? On oxygen? How much more time does he have?

This doesn’t sound good.

I open the laptop back up, email his wife Carolyn, and wait for her response.

Carolyn’s Response 

Allison, I am so glad you contacted me. 

I have been wanting to let you know…

She fills me in on his diagnosis back in September, 2017.

He has strongly advised me to let him handle all sharing with his family and,

as I suspected, he had never told you

that he has pulmonary fibrosis.

Juxtaposed with this solemn news, I can picture Carolyn giving Dad a playful nudge. “I married a stubborn one,” she might say, before breaking into a giggle.

This September will mark 5 years…

He had few symptoms until about the last year when the coughing increased. 

About a month ago I noticed he had trouble breathing,

trouble I could hear.

I love Carolyn. She’s intelligent, thoughtful, and has a great faith in God.

24-hour daily oxygen... 

Long story short, it has not helped. 

He cannot walk to the table to eat. 

Any movement sends him into a battle for breath.

Does her faith comfort her as she composes this message?

Do her fingers tremble as she types the way this illness will play out:

A person will be handling it well

and suddenly their condition deteriorates rapidly

leaving them unable to function normally. 

Please join me in prayer.  

The Apple Farmer

My brother picks up on the third ring. “I just had this weird feeling,” Bobby says when I tell him about Dad’s declining health.

“Remember when I first moved down here to Asheville? For some reason, Dad thought it would be a good idea if I planted apple trees on the property. He got me a book,” Bobby laughs. Dad was always getting us books. “As if I could be an apple farmer after reading one book about it.”

“So, I’ve got these trees, and I go to an organic growing school, trying to learn about how to take care of them. But the climate’s not great for apples down here so they never did much.”

“All this time I’ve had these trees, and then this year, out of nowhere, one of them dies.”

“It gave me a weird feeling.”

Misdirected Anger

The ants are back. They are crawling on the sticky dishes left in the sink. Paul comes out as I am loading the last few utensils into the dishwasher.

“I’m so sick of finding dishes in the sink,” I say, my voice rising. “We have four people in this house. Why am I the one putting the dishes in the dishwasher?”

I know other people do the dishes.

I know it’s not Paul’s fault we have ants.

I know it’s not Paul’s fault my dad can’t breathe.

I know it’s not Paul’s fault.

Email from Dad


I have applied to go into Hospice.

The In-between

Paul called the exterminator about the ants. He’s coming this morning. I’m waiting.

Do you ever feel like you are at a point in your life where you are waiting? Waiting for something to end, or something to start? Waiting for something to change?

I’m feeling a weird sense of in-between right now. It’s melancholy, bittersweet, restless and tired at the same time. I’m waiting, but I don’t want to wait for a moment that hasn’t arrived yet. I want to stay in the present moment, the moment of now, when ants march brazenly across the kitchen, when my father is alive.



Father's Day 2014


Father's Day 2019





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

My Baby Moved to Baltimore

Image
It seems forever ago and just yesterday that we dropped Jack off for his freshman year at college. My baby. College. I was overwhelmed with an enormous swelling of pride and a feeling of faith that Jack would soon be thriving and experiencing new possibilities. Mixed in with these emotions were a combination of terror (my baby! How will he ever survive without his mommy?) and grief (my baby! I miss him already). I remember distinctly sobbing as we drove back up Route 95 without him. Even though he was just a short drive away, this new life—college!—felt so distant, so full of unknowns. And he would not have me there by his side—he would have to figure out challenges and obstacles alone. Of course, he wasn’t alone. He was soon surrounded by new friends, professors, and coaches who loved and supported him. He studied (sometimes). He figured things out. He navigated through the “new normal” of the pandemic. He learned. And he graduated. After graduation, he came back home to live. Fro...
Read more

Security to Sporting Goods

Image
Occasionally, I meet a student who says, “I don’t have anything to write about,” so I prompt them with a question. “What did you do this weekend?” Sometimes, that will solve the problem. They’ll exclaim, “Oh, I went over to So-and-so’s house and we built a fort out of all the pillows in the basement.” And they’ll scamper back to their desks with their head full of images and memories and begin to write. Other times, they say, “nothing.” Of course, that’s not true. What they mean is, nothing of consequence. Same old, same old. No trips to the water park, no pony rides at the fair…just a regular weekend with a few video games and a trip to Target with Mom. “There,” I say, “You can write about shopping.” You can write about your mom, how excited she was when she realized she had a coupon for the toothpaste that was also on sale. I mean, who gets excited about toothpaste? Moms do. You can write about how she started with a list, but then lingered in the dollar section looking at the spring...
Read more

Putting Pickleball in its Place

Image
  I tried pickleball once. It didn’t take. It seems I’m in the minority with pickleball courts sprouting up all around me—the pickleball craze is getting crazier by the second. But I stand by my opinion: pickleball is not for me. When I was little, my dad tried to teach me how to play tennis. Multiple times. It didn’t take. I remember once he gave lessons to my entire Girl Scout troop so we could earn a tennis badge. After several tortured weeks of hearing “racquet back early” and “keep your eye on the ball,” I finally sewed the little round emblem onto my sash. And put down my racquet for good. I briefly came out of tennis retirement when I met Paul. I was sitting in my office cubicle when I saw him come out of the bathroom. He had just changed from his suit into his tennis shorts and was heading toward the elevators for an after-work match. And boy, did he look cute in those tennis shorts. When we started dating, he asked me if I knew how to play. “Sure!” I said enthusiasti...
Read more