In Memorium

23 September, 2013

My Papa Fred died today. He left the world four days after his 87th birthday and just weeks shy of his and Grammy's 60th wedding anniversary. There's very little I can say to explain how much I'm going to miss him. Even in the last few years, as his dementia escalated and claimed his memories, his generous, loving soul shone through to the very end.

To me he will always be the man teaching me to play chess, hunched over the electronic board, letting me think that I was winning because I moved the pieces for the computer. He's the man who taught me pool, and ping-pong, and instilled in me my love for mini-golf. Canoeing brings me back to Holmes Lake with him and Grammy paddling to the beach with me in the middle chomping on Skittles. Going for a bike ride will always remind me of the trips we took on their tandem through Lincoln, following the exercise path and my making us stop at every single station, his groaning and complaining the whole time, which only hardened my resolve because I knew he was doing it to make me laugh. 

He was the handyman, the builder, who gave me my beautiful three story dollhouse complete with balcony and shingled roof. He made my wooden rocking horse, and the chest for all my doll's clothes and accessories.

I don't remember him as overly demonstrative in his affection, but there was never any doubt in my mind that he loved my sisters and I deeply. He (and Grammy) were willing to drive 12 hours in one day and end up right back where they started in order to bring Lina or I down for our week in Nebraska. He tolerated (and paid for) our demands for endless trips to the frozen yogurt shop or Children's Museum and sat through many a childish movie at our behest.

I cannot imagine a childhood without him in it, and I cherish every memory I have of him. And despite my immense sense of loss for his physical presence I know that in many ways he can now be more present in our lives than before. I know, in the depths of my soul that he's whole again, that the separation he experienced throughout the past few years has been mended. And while I miss him immensely, and always will, I'm glad he's been spared further pain and frustration. I cannot speak with authority on how a person with dementia feels when they reach the point of nearly complete unrecognition of anyone important in their life, but it can't be easy. And from my point of view as a family member, it's easier to see him go knowing he's absolutely in a better place than the body he left behind.

I love you Papa.