Several years ago, at the start of the mid-stage of Dad’s illness, he was talking with me a bit after I had gotten him into bed. His thoughts were becoming confused but he still showed some insight into his developing problems. While I was still at the side of his bed, he sighed and looked at me.
With anxiety and bewilderment, he said, ‘I really don’t know what has happened to me.” It was both a confession and a plea for help. He could feel that something about his perception of the world was getting beyond the reach of his cognitive abilities.
And then he added,”Or to you for that matter.”
I was a bit shocked by his insight, the absence of any veil or artifice between the two of us. I didn’t know what to say. I guessed he was puzzled by why I was around so much, a big change from many years of my brief hit-and-run visits home. His message was heartbreaking; I don’t know if I had ever seen him more vulnerable. There was a tone of desperation in his voice, a plea for an explanation that eluded the remnants of his reason.
“Things will be okay Dad, we’ll get through it, you don’t need to worry.”
There is a Tom Waits song, I’m not sure of the title, but I think it is Never Let Go. In any case, the refrain is “I’ll never let go of your hand.” It popped into my mind at that moment. Dad was reaching out to me, perhaps the last time in our lives that he could reach out.
He held his hand out to me, and I reached out to him, held his hand in a firm, hopefully reassuring grasp.
Dad, you may have let go of my hand that night, but I have never let go of yours, even if you never know it.