When I visited with my father the other day. He was back in his room with the door closed. I knocked but he didn’t answer, so I slid the pocket door open (I love those things) and saw him sitting in a chair in the dark just staring in to space. I always wonder what, if anything, he’s thinking about when I find him like that. Is he going over his life or just zoning out?

When he saw me his face lit up. I went in, turned on a light and sat on the edge of his bed and talked. We had a nice visit not really talking about anything in particular other than me answering his usual, “How’s everyone at your place?” questions.

I told him about his grandson graduating from barber school and moving back to town which seemed to please him. A minute or two would go by and the Alzheimer’s would rear its head and he would look at me and ask several more times, “What’s your boy doing?”

We’d bought dad a digital photo frame that I loaded up with several hundred family photos that go all the way back through our family history - from when mom & dad were dating in the early 40’s to all the kids and grandkids now.

One of my favorite photos is one taken in California when mom and dad were on their honeymoon in 1943. Dad is in uniform and they’re hugging and kissing in the foreground with a Spanish Mission in the background.

Whenever dad sees a photo of mom he’ll usually make a comment like, “Oh, there she is. That’s my darling. I sure do miss her.”

It used to cause incredible sadness to well up inside me when dad would talk like this. I would do anything to avoid the discomfort of these feelings but there was no way to get away from them. Every time I’d visit he would talk about her. I completely identified with the pain my dad felt for losing the love of his life. It not only reminded me of loosing my mom but it brought to mind all the others I’ve lost recently and it seemed like my heart broke a little more each time.

Over time I’ve learned to re-frame things, to not see life through the lens of the black dog so much. Mindfulness practice has really helped with this. Now when dad talks about his love, it is a reminder of what a wonderful life they had. I talk more openly with dad about it now. I ask him about their early life. How they met. Where did they go on dates, etc. I’ve heard all the stories many times but dad loves to relive the moments and I do too. Occasionally he’ll tell a story I’ve never heard which is always fun and eye opening.

I’ve learned to flow with the emotional punches of watching the Alzheimer’s at work. The repetition of questions and the look that tells you they don’t know for sure who you are. It also causes dad to sometimes reveal a bit too much information. No one wants to hear about their parent’s sex lives but I’ve learned to see the humanity & humor when dad talks about how much mom “Loved to make love.” and then watch his eyebrow raise as he tilts his head at me and says, “Of course that was okay by me too!”

My sister cringes at such times but I know it’s not dad being disrespectful of mom’s memory, it’s the opposite - he has very good memories of her. The filters we all have that cause us to not say certain things becomes much thinner with Alzheimer’s.

I heard a story a while back and it’s become one of my favorites. It takes place long ago in the Chinese countryside, although it could really be set anywhere and anytime.

A farmer’s son goes missing. His neighbors tell him, “Oh, that is such a bad thing.” but he only answers them, “Who’s to say what’s good or bad?” A few days later his son returns with a beautiful horse. The neighbors tell him, “What good fortune. Your son is back with a fine valuable horse!” Once again the old man says, “Who’s to say what’s good or bad?”

A week or so goes by and his son breaks his leg while trying to ride the horse. The neighbors shake their heads and moan, “That horse is no good. It will take months for your son’s leg to heal.” The man says, “Who’s to say?” The next day the emperor’s army came thru conscripting all able bodied young men. Since the boy can’t walk, they leave him with his father. The neighbor’s are ecstatic, “What good fortune! Your son won’t have to risk his life.”

Now you can see how a story like this can go on and on. The point is that we really don’t know how things will turn out. A bad situation is a good situation and vice-versa.

Look at people who win the lottery. Some don’t let money change them - they stay the same person they were before hand, albeit with a nicer house and car. Others quickly run through the money and actually feel worse off after blowing millions.

The black dog of course will see a good situation as bad and a bad situation as worse, so what are we to do?

If you’re going to run a race, you practice running. Starting out with a shorter distance and slower pace than the actual race will be. Each time you train you’ll push yourself a little harder until you reach the goal you’ve set and you’re ready for the race.

In our race with the black dog of depression we do much the same thing. When we practice TLC, part of the program is to keep a daily log of our progress. It may not seem like much but when you’re really down nothing looks positive. We have to relearn how to see the good in our lives.

By keeping track of our progress we can clearly see how well we adhere to the program and how we are improving. Maybe your mood rating over the first few months was hovering in the 3 to 4 range but now you see it’s crept up to around 5 or 6 with a day or two at 7 or 8. Did you sleep 6 hours last night instead of the usual 4 to 5 hours? Have you noticed less rumination and more energy? It’s important to take notice of any and all progress. We want to build positive momentum in our struggle with the blues.

To help build this momentum try writing down at least 3 good, positive things everyday. Things that you did or that happened to you. Maybe you finished a small project at work, a friend called to say “hi” or you smiled and said, “I miss her too.” when your dad talks about how he misses his wife.

“Pain is inevitable, suffering is not.”

We can’t do much about the pain but we can do something about the suffering.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 1st, 2008 at 8:12 pm and is filed under family, mindfulness.