The Blackened A

The Blackened A

Linda L. Nuss

The spindled lodge pole pines, stately Blue Spruce, Indian paintbrush, and light-lavender anemones dotted the Colorado hillsides surrounding Camp Tomahawk, the summer of 1956. I was nine years old. My first time away from home.

Checking in, getting assignments, shifting my sleeping bag and duffel bag into the cabin tent left little time before parents said their good-byes. As my eyes nervously meandered about the campsite, I noticed little girls walking hand in hand with their dads. This scene would play over and over again in my mind as the years ensued.

Never did I doubt that my Dad loved me. Certainly he put in long enough hours working. Holding down two jobs became the norm for my Dad. The eldest of six siblings, naval swim instructor, father of five, DPS schoolteacher and administrator, I can still hear my Dad affirming, "I believe in the 3 F's� firm, fair, and friendly," his famed adage for teaching. Even after having finished a day with students, he would then head off to referee some football or basketball game. My Dad was such a strong man. He was a man who instilled a sense of self-confidence, an unflagging, diligent work ethic, and moral integrity in all his kids.

Yes, my Father was a good provider, but I wanted more than that. Never do I remember my Father demonstrating any real affection to me. No hugging. No kissing. Certainly no handholding walks in the park. Again and again the picture of all those little girls walking hand in hand with their dads replayed as my life pressed forward.

Reason would narrate, "Linda, it was probably only two girls up there at Camp Tomahawk that you saw with their dads." It didn't matter whether it was two or twenty. My heart would scream, "Well�it was never ME! My Dad and I never took a walk together, let alone held hands."

Years passed and I became a parent. Having moved to Apollo, Pa., I seldom saw my parents except for once or twice a year. Unaware of what actually had been happening back at home, I received a disheartening phone call. It was Mom.

Fighting back tears, gulping for more air, I refused to believe it could be true. "No it can't be! I won't believe it!" I shrieked from the depths of my soul. "God will heal him, if I just have enough faith." A sentence worse than death. Or so it seemed to me. My Dad might as well have been branded with a blackened A across his shirt. Isolation, suspicion, humiliation were the emotionally darkened, impenetrable steel doors that my dad would soon pass through. The Big A knew no prejudice. It knew no gender, no racial ethnicity bias. A cruel and sinister sentence had been imposed.

For seven, lengthy, drawn-out years, Mom cared for him with noble resoluteness and love. Dad never spoke during the last five years of his life. He had seen others diagnosed with Alzheimer's and had watched the progression of the disease in each one. The wanderings, the confusion, the repeated questions. He would hear them babbling on. It always bothered him. Mom said she felt that Dad had intentionally decided not to speak, so as not to sound incoherent. I think she may have been right.

Mom recounted to me the memory of one night in particular: the 2:30 a.m. escapade of the laundry nightmare. Hearing the sound of the washing machine downstairs being filled, she stumbled out of bed to see what on earth was going on. There stood Dad in the laundry room with that glazed look, the washing machine running without any clothes inside. "I thought I was going to lose it," Mom confesses.

As the years of care giving wore on, you could see the emotional as well as physical strain beginning to take its toll on Mom as well. Dad measured six feet tall. Mom was five. Waking up at 6:00 a.m. each day, Dad required assistance in donning his daily uniform for the Senior A Team - sweat pants, sweatshirt, and Velcro tennis shoes. Standard colors of gray, navy, and mossy green filled his closets. Even brushing his teeth had its challenges. Reaching for the tube of toothpaste, Mom would squeeze out a small amount onto Dad's blue toothbrush. With jaw clenched and teeth gritted together, Mom would begin the laborious task of getting Dad to open his mouth. She brushed them the best she could. Still the dentist complained about the condition of his teeth. What else could she do?

Each time I visited, I could see Mom's shoulders, body, and emotions drooping like the pink and purple pansy petals in my porch urn beat down by the searing sun's rays. Now Mom needed support. Occasionally I would go over on a weekend to give her some much needed respite time. Breathing a heavy sigh and with unspoken relief in her eyes, Mom would leave to drive over to my Aunt Lavada and Uncle George's house where she would spend a night or two. During those times I would take over the responsibility of caring for Dad.

It was a crisp fall Saturday afternoon when I asked Dad if he wanted to go walk up on the Highline Canal. Looking at me with his usual distant, disconnected stare, Dad appeared to be somewhere else. I made the decision. Let's GO! I helped him put on his cobalt blue, zippered windbreaker. Slowly shuffling out the door, we headed down the street towards the grassy incline up onto the Highline. Bicyclists and walkers dotted the pathway as they breathed in the cool fall air. The old tapes began to roll. Instantly, I was transported back to Camp Tomahawk, the summer of 1956. With tears welling up in my eyes, I looked down at my Father's large, worn hands and saw his fingers gently curled up in my own. I choked with emotion. Yes, this is what I always wanted. I just hadn't waited long enough.