So, I posted a blog the other day about dementia, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease, and about legal planning for these horrible diseases. In the blog, I posted a section of a poem that I wrote for my father. Since I published that blog, I have received a handful of requests to see the entire poem. Let me start by saying I’m a very private person and have never published this poem in public before, so this is way out of my comfort zone. But I’m also a big believer that you grow in every way by stepping outside of your comfort zone. Here is a little background.
My father and mother were both teachers and raised my two brothers and me in a happy, active home (although probably a little loud with 3 boys running around). My father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease at a young age and he battled Parkinson’s for 17 years before losing that battle. I spent his last ten days sleeping on a cot next to him at a hospice house, playing music that he loved and talking to a man with a mind but no voice. During that time, I wrote this poem about my father, growing up, and his transition from healthy to frail. . .
Your Shell, Your Soul
- Fastball smacking the catcher’s glove, batting practice;
- More than a ballgame, building a bond.
- Over the side of the boat, first one into the cold water;
- Setting the anchor, to keep us from drifting.
- Your shell and your soul, working together as one;
- Teaching, guiding, growing.
- Invincible, unshakable, the good times will last forever;
- Rolling on the waves of Lake St. Clair;
- Bat day at Tiger Stadium;
- Summers in Muskegon, the Big Hill, Duck Lake;
- Winter break in Florida, swimming, fishing, playing.
- Letting us plant roots, at the same time giving us room to grow;
- Your shell and your soul, climbing.
- Then, heartbreak – only 18;
- No father should have to bury his son.
- Is this the first time I’ve seen you cry?
- Shell weak, soul shaken to the core.
- All you can ask is “Why?”
- We can’t go on;
- But there is no choice, we must – we are a family, minus one.
- Rebuilding, changing.
- Whoever said “Time heals all wounds”,
- Doesn’t really know.
- Wedding bells, empty nest;
- “I’m not old enough to be a Grandpa”;
- But you are, and a good one at that.
- Teaching, planting seeds and building bridges for the future;
- Shell and soul, evolving, accelerating.
- Then, a slight tremor,
- A shudder, a shiver.
- An enemy from within;
- But still wit and confidence, inside and out.
- Your shell . . . a crack?
- Your soul, still strong.
- Tremors and shivers, turned by time into shakes;
- Muscles stiff, unbending.
- Before a step, a pause, a waver.
- Knees and elbows tattered from trips and tumbles,
- Black and blue, bloody, bandaged;
- Your soul, caged inside your fracturing shell.
- “I’m fine”. “I feel good”.
- Laughing, joking. Refusing to give in to the enemy.
- An outward show. But we know different;
- And even though we know, what can we do?
- While the cracks in your shell deepen,
- Incredibly, your soul remains fearless and strong.
- Hospitals, too many.
- Aren’t they supposed to make you better?
- Cruel for the shell, but worse, sickening for the soul.
- On the phone, you say “I love you”, and “I’m proud of you”;
- It can wait. You can tell me in person when I visit, Dad.
- Does he know something that I don’t?
- The last hospital – your shell, crumbling;
- Mind aware, eyes open, mouth silently screaming;
- Soul trapped, begging for release.
- Courage, character – I’m the one who is proud.
- So many doctors.
- How come they all say “There’s nothing else we can do”?
- Holding hands, mine shaking, yours cold.
- I’m here, Dad. Don’t be scared.
- We don’t want you to leave, but we understand.
- You can let go.
- Let your soul soar, free from your broken shell.
- I think I’m staying, and waiting,
- To say “Goodbye”.
- But the longer I stay, the longer I wait,
- The more I understand, I’m staying,
- Not to say “Goodbye”.
- But to say,
- “I remember. And I will never forget.”
