46

 

Because Dad is listless today and was irritated at the prospect of physical therapy, Adam is just giving him a massage and doing some range-of-motion exercises in Dad’s apartment. He has agreed to spend some time with Nick afterwards, even though it means he will have to cut Dad’s therapy short. I’m torn about this, but Nick needs help almost as much as Dad does.

Dad has succumbed to Adam’s skillful hands and is peacefully dozing while being massaged. I’d sure like to trade places with him, but I’m enjoying hearing about the trip to Louisiana to meet the adoptive mother and her family. Adam is full of excitement and joy that he and Jennie were given the family’s blessing in adopting the baby.

“Of course you would have their blessing. Who could possibly be more wonderful parents than you two? When will she deliver?” I ask.

“February 15th is the expected date. Only three weeks from now.”

“Three weeks? That’s so soon, Adam.”

He nods. “We have a lot to do to get ready, and we’re going back for the birth. We’re expected to be there, but we really want to be, anyway. He’ll be put into our arms immediately.”

He describes the family, but he doesn’t share any names, not even the mother’s. It’s part of the agreement.

“And here’s the coolest thing, Rachel. Her grandfather’s name was Lucas.”

My mouth falls open. I get goosebumps. “Wow! Of all the names in the world . . .”

“That’s what we said. And apparently he passed away when she was still a little girl, but she’s grown up hearing about him and feels close to him.”

“That is so amazing, Adam. Just another sign Lucas is supposed to be your baby.”

“We said the same thing, and then we all prayed about it. It was powerful.”

Adam lowers his head and takes a deep breath, apparently recalling those powerful emotions and the effect they had on him.

“I’m so happy for you and Jennie, and I can’t wait to meet Lucas!”

I sit back and absorb the wonder of it all. How life changes so quickly. Until ten days ago, Adam and Jennie had no idea there was a baby who was meant to be theirs. Three weeks from now, that will become a reality.

As T.S. Elliott said, “Sometimes things become possible if we want them bad enough.”

Sometimes.

 

 

Post-massage, Dad is settled into his chair and watching TV. Adam and I go upstairs, with Nick trailing us. Poor boy is having a harder time with the steps. While we wait for him, I pour Adam a glass of iced tea. He downs it in one long drink, then starts working on Nick. I settle on the living room sofa so we can talk.

Since this is the first time Adam has seen Dad in ten days, he doesn’t know about the change in the amount of time Dad’s sleeping. I tell him about the longer sleep pattern and what Dr. Carter had to say about it.

I share my worry that so much physical therapy and speech therapy is wearing Dad out and ask him if he thinks we should cut back. To best illustrate my point, I walk over and show him two pictures I’ve printed: The one taken in mid-December, and the one taken in mid-January—just last week, in fact. He looks at the pictures for a long moment, and his shoulders rise and fall with the deep breath he takes and releases.

“What is it, Adam?”

“I’m a strong believer in keeping somebody moving as long as they can move. Ambulation is good for Joe since he sits so much. His hip flexors get tight, and I like to work with him on elongating those. When Joe sits for hours, he has contractures.”

“Oh, yes, contractures. Shortening and hardening of muscles and tendons that can lead to deformity and rigidity of joints.”

Adam nods and says, “Which is why it’s hard for him to get on his feet for therapy, and why it’s hard for you to transfer him. We’re working against every destructive and aging mechanism there is with Joe.” Adam looks sad as he says this, and the sadness is contagious.

Sometimes I feel I have taken blow after blow in caring for my parents, and I’m feeling pretty battered right now. Death has its own agenda, and it doesn’t stop working until it has met that agenda. It can be thwarted temporarily through medical interventions, but it will fulfill its agenda in the end. This I know to be true, yet I want to fight back and deny its tenacity.

From previous conversations I know Adam doesn’t think Dad has brain damage, per se, but he does know Alzheimer’s hollows the brain out so it eventually looks like Swiss cheese. Losing portions of the brain is in itself brain damage, as far as I’m concerned. And that’s what’s happening with Dad.

I want to be alone. I need time to process everything we’ve talked about, and I don’t want to lay sadness on top of Adam’s happiness about the adoption.

“Well,” I say, presenting a stalwart façade, “let’s see how Dad does with the next session. I hope he’s awake enough to participate so you can evaluate if we should continue or not.”

The look on Adam’s face tells me he sees through me, sees my sadness, but he allows me to hold onto my poise by not pushing the conversation any further or in any other direction.

“Sounds like a plan, Rachel.”

Nick stays where he is, basking in the good feelings that Adam’s hands have delivered. As I hand Adam a check, I say, “Give Jennie my love, would you? And please tell her I’m thrilled it all worked out so well. In three weeks, you’ll be parents of a beautiful baby boy!”

The irony of the situation doesn’t escape me. One life is being ushered out, another life is being welcomed in, and all I can hope for is they have a chance to meet before they begin their separate journeys down the forked road of life.