Every Step He Takes

by Deb Jensen

Thirteen months ago, my father lost his oxygen supply. My mother died and it was as though the very air had been sucked out of my father's life. For 57 years, my parents had been one, sharing everything, doing everything together, often—I swear—sharing every thought. Everyone around them saw it: they were so close that at times, there wasn't room for anyone else in their lives. As their only daughter, I knew that the bond they shared was extraordinary.

And then, a sudden illness took my mother's life and my father found himself without an anchor. My mother had happily done everything for him. He wanted for nothing. My mother even combed the back of his hair every morning. Her unexpected death rocked the foundation of everything he believed. He couldn't understand why a loving god would leave him on earth without his "honey." He couldn't understand why he hadn't died first. To be honest, I truly don't think he'd ever—not even for a moment—contemplated life without her.

His grief ran so deep that our attempts to console seemed embarrassingly feeble. My husband and I, our children, my father's friends, and his church all joined hands to encircle him with love and support. Sadly, neither my mother nor father had brothers or sisters. Yes, there were cousins—some of which came to the funeral and visitation—but not the closeness of a sibling. Despite this outpouring, I'd never seen him more alone.

He relied on me, in part I assume, to take over my mother's role, despite the fact that I lived in Seattle and he lived in Iowa. He knew there was something in me that he could draw upon. Our son headed back to college while my husband, daughter, and I stayed on for 10 more days (after the funeral). I had already taken care of all of the details for the funeral, wrote and delivered the eulogy, and I had written all of the many thank you cards. Now it was time to try to put some semblance of order back into a life that had been ripped to shreds—and help him find his way in the darkness.

My father had never balanced a checkbook or paid bills. He'd never made social engagements or doctors' appointments. He had learned to do the laundry a few years ago when my mother couldn't navigate up and down their basement stairs, but she had always sorted the laundry first and told him how to wash it. In the last few years, he had begun doing some rudimentary cooking while my mother sat at the kitchen table and instructed him.

Once we returned to Seattle, we talked every evening at 5:30. Like clockwork, if I didn't call, he would. He had no interest in moving and I can understand that—this was where they had built their life and where his activities and friends were. At 80, uprooting yourself to move across country—especially to a place where it rained all the time and the mountains hemmed him in—would have been even more unsettling, no matter how much he loved his family.

So we settled into our new routine, the daily phone call. It seemed to get him through the endless, lonely evenings when he'd be sitting in his recliner and looking over to where Mom should have been. I helped him with all the details of selling their home—the only house they'd ever owned—and helped him figure out what to move with him to the retirement complex. I garnered my friends still in Iowa to help him sell a few larger things, helped him find someone to take what he didn't want, and with my friends, we boxed him up for the move. He decided to move to the retirement complex he and my mother had selected together. Although he was going to move several months earlier than they had planned, he liked the idea of carrying through with it. I was glad—that house held too many memories and he was too alone. My mother's presence echoed through that house, reminding us all that she wasn't there anymore.

Somehow, through those first excruciating weeks, my father found a way to keep going. I'd like to think my daily pep talks worked as well as that of the half-time speech from a coach that inspires his team to a come-from-behind victory. But I can't take the credit. My father deserves it all. At a time when others his age would choose to retreat or simply give up and waste away, my father made the choice to find a way to survive. He found within himself the strength to carry on, to get through a day, to allow his tears to cleanse his soul.

I've always been proud of my dad. He served in World War II in the Army Air Corps as an air traffic controller. He was a television engineer in the early days of television, even "turning on" for the first time what remains the major CBS affiliate in Iowa. He was a whiz at anything electronic. I liked nothing better than getting to go down "to the station" to watch him at work. On Saturdays when I was younger, we'd often go to the hardware store together and on Sunday afternoons after the noon meal, he and I would go into his basement and build things at his workbench!

But I've never been prouder of him than I am now. Somehow, my father managed to rebuild a life. Look at what he's done. Almost 82 now, he's grown in more ways these last months than some people do in a lifetime. First, there are the pragmatic accomplishments, everything from managing his own finances to cooking and shopping for himself. He'll even go out to eat by himself. I have friends who won't eat alone in a public restaurant.

He goes to church every Sunday and makes sure he meets up with friends for lunch somewhere afterwards. Religiously. He goes to festivals and parades and summer band concerts, even if it means going by himself. He's made short day trips within the state. He finds simple pleasure in watching the birds and squirrels that sing and scamper in the huge oak tree outside his third-floor apartment.

He's made new friends in his new home and goes on activities and outings sponsored by the complex. He especially enjoys the trips to the casino. Just this week, he gave a slide presentation for other residents on a trip to Wales he and my mother took several years ago. And he continues to be an active part of the groups he and my mother belonged to together.

My father understood that it was important for him to keep his hands busy, especially during Midwestern winters. When I was little, he not only did his woodworking but he built this magnificent N-gauge model train railroad that took up nearly a quarter of their basement. This past winter, he built a beautiful model of a ship and a model of his first car. He bought himself a digital camera last fall and seems to be the unofficial photographer for events at his retirement complex. He's working on a wire art rendering of a hot air balloon and is even thinking about basket-making.

All of these are remarkable achievements for a man his age but oh no, my dad didn't stop there. He flew by himself, his first solo trip ever perhaps, to visit us in Seattle at Christmas. In February, he went to Phoenix to visit his cousin. He drove to Kansas City early this summer for a long weekend. And he'll be back in Seattle at Christmas.

This spring, he bought himself a 21-speed bike…after not being on a bike for some 15-20 years. Since his heart attack six years ago, he's been wonderful about making sure that he walks daily. But now he's become a regular fixture in the neighborhood, riding 3-4 miles a day. If it's a particularly nice day, he might put the bike on the rack and drive out to a park or another part of town with a nice bike path and pack along a light lunch. He looks cute as a button in his helmet out pedaling.

My father signed up to become a volunteer for Iowa Public Television and worked two shifts at their booth at the Iowa State Fair. He even became politically active. He went down to the Iowa Democratic Headquarters and signed up as a volunteer. He stood behind Senator Harkin carrying a Kerry-Edwards placard at a rally. He went down and stuffed envelopes, handed out absentee voter registrations, and did his best to rally his friends. I've never, ever known him to be so involved.

Staying involved, being active, keeping busy—my dad's learned what it takes to make it through each hour and each day. The grief is still ever present, some days taking over. But still he tries. He's joined a support group for men who lost their wives and is thinking of trying to organize a bowling team for the group. He's even taking advantage of a multi-week program put on by a local hospice on grief and the holidays.

I look at him and marvel. We all worried how he would survive after my mother died. Yet in the midst of agonizing loss, he found a new path to walk and things to look forward to again. We still talk at 5:30, although now it's every other day and sometimes even every three days. I am so proud of him. But it's a bittersweet feeling, because I know he'd trade it all in a heartbeat to spend even one more second with my mom.

Deb Jensen is a writer and freelance grantwriter/nonprofit consultant. An Iowa native, she lives just north of Seattle.