Me and Frank: It's OK

My mother and father have been married 65 years.  They continue to count their years together, but they no longer live under the same roof.  Frank Lochridge was moved into a dementia care facility in Missoula, Montana, just before Thanksgiving 2013.  I had the privilege of taking care of my father before the move.  My mom, Shirley, was in the hospital and then rehab after triple bypass surgery.  During that time and after, I wrote about my and my father’s experiences together.   I feel just a little selfish writing about this.  I acknowledge that living 1600 miles away gives me the luxury of romanticizing the experience while those left behind, two of my brothers and my mother, deal with the daily reality. 

Before dementia, I think the word that best describes my father is leader.  Leader of a YMCA in Aberdeen, SD, for 25 years.  Leader of multiple businesses, including a campground less than a mile from Glacier National Park and sailboat rentals on Flathead Lake, both in Montana .  My father also was the boss of our family.  It didn’t matter how small the task, he knew the best course and was not shy about sharing his expertise.  I once observed him and one of my brothers “debate” how best to retrieve a cake from atop a cupboard.  It was tense, too.  Years later, I realize it had nothing to do with the cake.     

I can’t say that we had a terribly close relationship, me and my father.  But we had respect for one another.  And love.  He came from the school of raise your children and set them loose.  If they come back, send them back out asap.  My father had many sides.  On the other hand, he was a hugger.  He teased a lot.  Then again, he was strict.  I once thought he was kind of mean, especially to one of my brothers.  Never to me.   He worked long hours when I was coming up.  My poor dear mother was left to wrangle us six kids, five boys and one girl.  Pretty typical for the times.

Since 1975, I have lived thousands of miles from my parents.  It was OK when they were OK.  Now they are not OK and I suffer the guilt one does when one is not pitching in to help, not doing one’s fair share.  So when the opportunity arose for me to help my brothers care for our father, I jumped at it.  Wipe away some of that guilt.  I can’t express how lucky and grateful I feel for the 3 weeks I cared for my father and also my mother, to a lesser degree.  I slept on a blowup mattress in the living room of their small one-room apartment.  Every night I heard my father walk the short distance between bedroom and bathroom.  Multiple times every night.   One night I heard him detour into the kitchen.  Then I hear a crash.  I flew up crying, “Are you OK?”  My thoughts turn to worst case scenario.  It was OK.  My father had bumped into a picture on the wall and the picture fell.  He was so apologetic, like a child who did something horribly wrong.   It’s OK, Dad.   I could hear my heart.  It’s OK, Mary.

NEXT: Method to his madness