My kids and I are in Kansas for six weeks, about halfway through as I start writing this. We have made this trip every two or three years since 2011 when we moved back to Korea. We always lose things when we take a trip like this. Some losses are easier to carry than others.
Part of each of these trips has been a family gathering. My mother sets it all up weeks in advance so that everyone can get it on their calendar. It started as a late Christmas celebration when my children were little kids, but gradually became a family and close friends potluck.
This time I overheard someone say, "I haven't seen Doug's family since the last time we did this three years ago!" The response was, "It's become a kind of regular family reunion."
I love the idea of Family Reunions. When I was growing up the Sack family got together for Christmas for a good 20 or more years in a row. Watching the kids this time reminded me of when I was little and all these almost-strangers told me how tall I had gotten and asked how I was doing in school. I tried to make not-awkward conversation with my cousin's 12-year-old daughter, but it was clearly awkward, even though she was reading a book and I love reading and could always be found reading at uncomfortable events when I was her age. My role has moved too far beyond hers to join her group, at least in one shot.
These Family Reunions are always fun, with good food and lively conversation, even though I was getting a little tired by hour five, and kind of wanted to get out my Kindle and just sit and read with the other bookworm.
My mother planned this one well, deliberately taking herself out of the center of action. In the past she has been more involved in preparing food and such, but this time she did most of the work by phone: reserving the room, emailing everyone, ordering a huge amount of fried chicken from a local restaurant, etc. It was a deliberate choice, because it has gotten more difficult for her to stand and move around the past year or two. Her planning paid off in a way that she could not have expected:
She was unable to attend. At five o'clock in the morning on the day we arrived in the United States, she tripped on a slipper, fell and broke her hip. I visited her in the hospital that afternoon (or evening? damn jetlag) without the kids. She had surgery the next day, which went very well, then was moved to a rehabilitation clinic in Leavenworth about a week later. The problem is that she has also had appetite problems: she has no appetite. And it hurts to swallow. A lot. For a long time.
This went unchecked by the hospital and the rehab for almost two weeks, possibly because they were focused on the broken hip. By that time her condition was deteriorating because she wasn't eating. It felt like she was just getting worse and worse, and was going to die. There have been ups and downs, but as I write this the doctors still don't understand why she has trouble eating.
So around four o'clock at the family reunion which was missing its coordinator, my Dad told me he was going to see Mom, then stood at the front of the room and got everyone's attention. "Thank you for coming everyone. We're so happy to have Rob and all the grandkids here, but.. I... I... I thought I could do this." He started to break down in front of everyone, so I went up to him, put my arm around his shoulder, and continued for him:
"We are so happy that you all are here. Stay, eat, talk, but Dad is going to be with Mom at the hospital now. She knows that you want to see her, but please don't come to the damn hospital. We love you."
I got a laugh with "damn hospital," and replies of "We love you, too." Then I walked outside with Dad. I asked how I did, and he told me that it was a bit scary how well I had read his mind! I told him that I have spent my life hearing his and Mom's voice in my head, and as I have gotten older and listened more closely, I hear them both more clearly than ever. It is not scary at all. It's beautiful. As much as I will miss them when they are gone, they will never be completely gone as long as I still hear their voices.
The ironic part of me hearing my father's voice in my head is that he is losing his words. He has ideas clearly in his head, but the words will not form in his mouth. Simple words, like hospital, or key, or blanket. He will be reading words from a page, but his mouth refuses to form them. He has stopped being worship leader or doing any other public speaking at church, though he still sings. Sometimes I can give him the right words, but mostly I just listen, or encourage him to go on to the next idea.
I have started mourning the passing of my parents, as I lose little pieces of them. I don't suppose anyone ever feels ready to take the place of their parents as the oldest in their immediate family. I thought it hurt when I lost my grandparents, but it is clear that that was a shadow of the loss that is coming.
You don't have to tell me that this is the price of love. I know. I know that the price of love is losing it, and that someone will always pay that price. It is not too steep a price for the love I carry for them in my heart, and their voices that I carry in my mind. Love and voices which I will continue to pass to my children, until I too lose my words.
