You know I keep trying to analyze, diagnose my Dad’s behavior in his last years: he became unsure of himself and his abilities; he lost the security of my mom being able to do everything to take care of them both as a couple, and as individuals, as her health was stricken; he was retired and wondered about his purpose; he got very thin and lost more weight no matter what he ate; I said, over and over, that he had combative demetia; wrong or right, he was angry and wanted to be cared for, became a suburban Grendel, full of fury but bare bone vulnerable; everyone cared, when allowed; he was full of fear; despair was a vicious bear on his back; he was ill; cancer crushes; his pain was immense; he was dying before officially diagnosed. Before, before he lost his voice I called, he asked me if I was mad at him. No, no I am not, I said, and added, I love you Dad. I love you too, he said. Then he wanted the newspaper, to see who was playing who that day. Confused, but stubborn, mad but forced to surrender to the play of disease; he reconciled to love.

My layman’s diagnosis; no sense resides in the world as we lose people we love. Wishing it was simple loss, such as where are my keys, what did I do with my notebook, is my other shoe over there; no, it dropped. To cobble another shoe, I attempt with thoughts. I try and try to figure everything out–to re-assemble myself, using my brain, my frontal lobe, while it communicates with every other batch of fiery electric nerves–and wonder, in resting moments, as I tell myself to breathe deeply, at my attempt to handle sorrow.