Adventures with Dad!

When I am about seven years old and Sara is five, we accompany our father to the big city of Grand Island to run some errands. We buckle in the across the bench seat of his 1977 Chevy Silverado, all with a front row view of the buildings and one-way streets that seem spectacular compared to our one-stoplight town. As we roll down 2^nd Street, our father announces, “I can make the stoplights turn green.”

“Nuh-uh!” Sara and I shout through missing front teeth.

The truck approaches the first intersection and my father points to the red light. “Green!” he sings, and a second later the light changes.

“Do it again!” Sara cheers, clapping her hands.

“Ok,” he says.  He takes a deep breath and stares at the red stoplights at the next four intersections. “I won't even use the brake.”

The truck rolls down the block, the only vehicle on the three-lane street. Like a bull challenging a red flag, the pickup heads toward the closest red light without hesitation. Mere feet from the intersection, my father points to the sky and commands, “Green!” The light changes instantly and we keep going.

Sara laughs with excitement. “I want to try!” Halfway down the block, she points to the next red light and screams, “Green!” Nothing happens, so she points and screams again, “Green! Green! Green!”

She keeps trying as the truck maintains its speed and the red light taunts her. Finally, a few feet from the intersection, my father points and says with her, “Green!” The light changes and we roll forward.

Sara continues shouting and almost jumps out of her seat as the next light changes from red to green on our father's command.  By the last intersection I join in, happily yelling at the lights that seem to be voice-activated.

–

My sisters and I often help our father with projects, from planting and watering the garden as kids, to yard work and car maintenance as teens, to larger construction and home improvements as young adults. I am nine or ten years old the first time my father lets me use power tools (well, an electric screwdriver) while assembling a pre-fabricated entertainment center made from treated wood and accompanied by hardware separated into a dozen small plastic bags. This is the first major building project I help him with, and he goes through the steps of proper assemblage.

“Step one,” he says and looks straight at me. “Always read the instructions first. All the way through. Always follow the instructions so you do it right the first time.” He hands me an oversized booklet with small, block print and tiny lines pointing to various points on squares. The whole thing looks like it is a different language, and when I look closer, I notice it is. I turn the booklet over and upside down and back and find a page filled with drawings of different sized screws, nails, nuts, and bolts.

“Read it all the way through first,” my father instructs. “I'll sort the pieces.” He pulls several boards from the cardboard box and scatters them around the basement in groups based on size.

“Aren't you going to read it first? How long is this going to take?” I complain, feeling less and less enthusiastic about the project by the page.

“I've read it already,” he replies, though I doubt the truth of this statement based on the brief amount of time he had with the instructions after fishing them out of the box. “If we follow the instructions and do this right, it should only take 20 minutes.”

And so we begin, following the instructions. My father reads a step, decides on the correct components to use, and mimics the diagrams. Occasionally I hold some of the pieces so they don't fall apart, and he shows me how to use and properly maintain a ball peen hammer and a screwdriver that plugs into a bright orange extension cord. After ten minutes, I ask how much longer this will take. He replies, “20 minutes.”

An hour later, only about three-fourths of the pieces have been assembled.  We get to a step in the instructions that states we are supposed to attach another board at a specific location using the holes that have already been drilled for us. Unfortunately, there are no such holes, and the screws we are instructed to use are not in any of the plastic packets that came with the set.

“That's what happens with these things,” my father growls, “they never give you all the parts you need.” He swears under his breath out of sheer frustration, as this is the third or so time we have had to go back and change pieces around because they were in the wrong place. Whining, I ask if we can just quit or keep going “as is.” Without looking up, he says in a solid voice, “NO. If you are going to do something, do it right.” Whispering words Mother later punishes Sara for repeating, he stomps to the garage in search of screws from his collection that are similar to those missing from the kit.

After this, I no longer keep boards steady or ask how much longer the task will take. I read each step exactly as written in the booklet and double-check each nail and screw and nut and bolt to the picture and corresponding letter on the diagram. My father almost cracks when we realize that the section we just “fixed” was actually right the first time and just missing the notches that the instructions said would be there. More swearing ensues, though just at himself and the directions, and I notice that, curiously, no one else in the family has been in the basement for quite a while.

When the shelves and cabinets eventually resemble the picture on the box, we push the apparatus against the wall.

My mind dwells on some toy or TV show or anything else I think is more exciting. “Can we be done now?” I ask.

“No,” my father replies, “we need to hook up the TV and stereo.”

“How long will that take?” I try not to sigh, but I can't help it.

“Not long. With your help, we can be done in 20 minutes.”

–

We eventually finish assembling the entertainment center and bring it along when we move to a new town years later. After the AOL revolution takes Christmas by storm, we get our first family computer that is internet-capable. When my father sets up an account with the local internet provider, he is asked to provide a name for the computer's email address. When he gets back to the house, he gives my sisters, mother, and me a tutorial on how to dial up the internet and what to do for email. He proudly says that our family's address is WOMEN@[INTERNETPROVIDER].NET. Sara and I, in our teenage mindsets, practically scream in embarrassment. “WHY did you pick that!?” we demand.

He shakes his head and smiles, possibly thinking about the three sisters he grew up with and his own three daughters. “I'm surrounded by them,” he explains.

--

When I am in high school, my mother takes a job in an office and spends her days processing forms and creating documents on a computer. The first hints that something was changing in her brain appear a few years later, in the form of technology mistakes. She holds back tears as she confesses to my father that she can't remember how to respond to email and she can't find the files on the computer that she needs. Collectively, we explain it away as stress and outdated technology. There are only five people in her office, and it is no secret that they are expected to carry ever-heavier workloads. After the office clears out on evenings, my father begins stopping in and helping my mother complete her work. On weekends, he tries, unsuccessfully, to reteach her how to use email on the “women” account. After several months of this routine, my mother finally quits her job on the basis that the stress is causing her mental problems.

I believe, as I think my parents do as well, that after Mother takes a few months to rest and reevaluate what she wants to do with her life, she will be back to her normal self. Nine months later, she seems more introverted and unmotivated to seek employment. She second-guesses herself constantly and slowly cuts herself off from her friends and extended family.

She has been in charge of the financial records and payments for as long as I can remember, and almost suddenly she has no answer as to why the checks were mailed to the wrong companies or not sent at all. My father begins receiving letters and phone calls about bills that have not been paid.

My mother also organizes the grocery shopping. Since we live in a small town, when my mother's checks start causing trouble the store contacts my father directly. I am home during a long weekend from college when Pac 'N Save calls about a bad check. The amount my mother wrote on the second line did not match the total written in numbers. McKenzie tells me that this particular problem has happened a few times already. Mother sighs like it is an added inconvenience.

I drive her to the store and watch as she scribbles the total on the check again, however this time the writing isn't even legible and the clerk refuses to take it. I grab the check and write the correct amount, and then we both leave quickly to avoid further embarrassment. My mother's face is deep red and tears form as we stride to the car. The whole scene seems unreal, and I have no idea what to say to her about it. As we buckle into our seats and exit the parking lot, she stares out the window and asks in a voice I can barely hear, “Why am I so stupid?” Confused about this incident and angry that it has happened before, I continue to simply say nothing.

Finally out of patience, my father drives around town and collects applications from any business with entry-level positions. He gives the stack to my mother, who lets them collect dust on the kitchen counter for a month. My father selects a form one evening and begins filling it out for my mother. She watches him insert her name and information in the spaces. He asks what her social security number is, and she says she doesn't know. As a test, he asks what her birth date is, and she admits she doesn't remember. “I used to know...” she says and shrugs.

Father will later tell me that he spent over half an hour trying to get her to remember that her birthday is in June and the day. With a voice as broken and defeated as his spirit, he explains, “But she just couldn't remember. And it doesn't seem to bother her.”

–

Realizing that there are no life “instructions” for her behavior, my father takes Mother to the local doctor to figure out what is wrong with her memory. This begins a five-doctor, multi-city tour that will last over eight months and end with a diagnosis of Alzheimer's. My mother is 54 years old at this point, and as her mental capacity continues to diminish, Sara and I wonder if we should be worrying about menopause.

“I don't know anything about that!” Father exclaims one evening when I bring up the subject. Mother is hovering in the doorway, her eyes angled in frustration because she knows we are talking about her but she cannot follow the conversation.

“And you think I do?!” I practically shout back without missing a beat. At 25 years old, my biological clock is closer to puberty than hot flashes.

Mother snorts at the obvious tension in the room, and my father glances at her. Out of the side of his mouth, he asks, “How do you know if there's something.... like that going on?”

My eyes rest on Mother, too, and I frown. “I don't know.”

–

Father’s job takes my parents to a new town shortly after McKenzie graduates from high school.  Now dealing with empty-nest syndrome along with Alzheimer’s, they downsize to a smaller residence.  However, we still have enough “stuff” to fill a larger house.  My father decides to build a shed in the back yard, and over several weekends one summer he constructs it out of a kit from a local home improvement store.  He gets materials for the largest shed he can legally construct in the city limits, and we begin referring to it as “the barn.”  Mother spends a day holding siding as Father measures and nails the pieces into the outside walls.  She does not complain once and always asks, “Can I help?”

I visit on the day Father is ready to attach the rolling door to the front of the shed.  He finds an internet video that shows “proper assembly in just two minutes.”  We watch the video three times. 

Through twenty years of these father-daughter projects, I have learned to visualize pieces beyond their two-dimensional replications on multi-language pages and understand that arguing with my father over what is incorrectly assembled versus what is incorrect in the instructions is just a normal part of the process. “Two minutes,” he says.  “What could go wrong?”

“With our usual timeline?” I sniff, “it will probably take all day.”

We finish after two days of trials, missing pieces, debates, trips to the store, and arguments to figure out that the wrong door had been delivered and finally fit the correct one to the frame.

While admiring the new door, we both agree that if the demo video had promised a 20-minute assembly, we would probably have been working on the project for another two weeks.

--

My sisters and I plan a surprise party for Father's 60^th birthday, and every time we tell Mother about it, she smiles and shakes her head enthusiastically. “He does a good job,” she says before forgetting about the celebration.

McKenzie spends spring break at home that weekend, and she is in charge of sneaking Mother out of the house to help decorate. She dresses Mother in a nice shirt, curls her hair, and applies her makeup. Meanwhile, Father sits at the kitchen table watching a western on the small television nearby.

“Mom and I are going to run some errands,” McKenzie says as they pass by. Father sits up and turns to her. “Oh! Where are you going?”

Without missing a beat, McKenzie explains, “We need some ladies' stuff.”

“Oh,” Father's shoulders deflate and he turns back to the television. “Ok. Have fun.”

McKenzie grabs Mother and practically pushes her out the door before Father notices Mother is wearing makeup.

--

My father and I visit local caregiving companies and try to imagine Mother's experience with each. Father explores several others on his own and walks away frustrated, as most facilities with memory units or day care programs simply put people in chairs in front of a television all day.

I do not want to see these places because doing so is emotionally overwhelming and a part of my brain holds the superstition that as long as we don't talk about it, Mother will never need to go there.

“It's important we have a plan,” Father repeats as we walk out of another facility with yet another stack of brochures.

Within two years, this plan will be tested as Mother takes a turn and becomes a resident at one of these “homes.” Even after all of the visits and research and first-hand experience, Father looks at her every evening, holds her hand, and asks, “Is this the best place?”

--

“What are your plans for today?” my father asks me one Saturday morning while waiting for the coffee to brew. 

My face reflexively switches to a frown because I have heard this loaded question many times before.  I answer, cautiously.

“Laundry.”

“I need your help with something,” he says, turning his attention to a neighbor’s yard and a small tree that had turned yellow and then brown—the casualty of a hard freeze late in the season. 

“Does he know you’re going to cut it down today?” I ask.

“No,” Father replies, “but he’s been hinting at it for months.”

This is probably an understatement, as this particular 90+ year-old neighbor tends to do a lot of talking.  Literally.  He once had a two-hour, one-sided chat with my mother because she couldn’t remember how to politely end a conversation. 

“Is he even home?” I ask. 

“I don’t know.” 

We stare at the tree through the kitchen windows, silently trying to assess the trunk’s height and diameter.  Over the past year, Neighbor had lost his wife, broken his hip, and been involved in two separate single-car accidents that resulted in both of his automobiles being totaled.  When he asked my father to cut down the dead tree, there was no question that it would be taken care of.

“How long will it take?”

With a discernable glint in his eye, he responds, “Should take about twenty minutes.”