The stars at night are big and bright
Deep in the heart of Texas.
The prairie sky is wide and high
Deep in the heart of Texas.
When you drink Pearl beer you'll have to cheer
Deep in the heart of Texas.
American popular song - FUBAR version
I'm in Texas, visiting my parents. It's only been a few days and yet I think I truly understand what Ram Dass meant when he said, "If you think you're enlightened, try spending a week with your family." As soon as I walked into the house, I remembered why I used to joke that my parents went better with beer. By the time we sat down to dinner, I was starting to obsess about vodka. I hate being drunk and despise vodka. Who knew I could get unhinged so quickly?
Sometimes it has to get worse before it gets better. It did. At dinner, my father told me about his new favorite recipe, one that he created with me in mind. But let me back track. My father loves to eat as much as I love to bike and swim. So where my eyes may take on the starry eyed look of a heroin addict when talking about her drug of choice when I talk about a great bike ride, my father's eyes twinkle when he talks about food. You might think, "How nice! A moment of father, daughter bonding." I, however, cringed. I know my father and spent my childhood having to eat his self-created recipes. He offered to make me a dairy free, wheat-free variation of quesadillas. Both wheat and cheese send my digestive system into mutiny so this really was a touching gesture. Unfortunately, my ability to take in the love was colored by an intense nausea. "What kind of dairy free, wheat free quesadilla could be that bad?" you ask. Test if for yourself: Take one tin of sardines in soy oil. Mash them up and spread them on a corn tortilla that's been dipped on both sides in warm olive oil, fold the sardine laden tortilla in half, and heat until lightly crispy.
At least my nausea disrupted my thirst for a can of Pearl beer followed by a vodka chaser. If you had ever taken a sip of Pearl Beer, you'd understand that this truly was a blessing. Unfortunately, my nausea also served as a memory portal. I found myself flooded with all sorts of traumatic food memories. There were the green eggs and ham he used to make me for breakfast, the tuna fish salad with mayonnaise, raw peanuts, chopped apples and celery that he made for lunch, and the "Son of a Gun Stew" made with a sundry of cow bits including the kidneys, intestines, heart and liver, that he made for dinner. And mind you, I wasn't allowed to leave the table until I'd eaten whatever I'd been served. I spent hours at the table staring down things my father had made trying to dissolve whatever it was with laser beams streaming out from my eyes.
Ahh, but memories are rarely so simple. The real problem wasn't the food; it was the messages that got imbued with food. In my family, family meals were mandatory, fun was not. The table became a battle ground. Sure. we had fun some times, but it was also the place where my father issued his criticisms. Other than the table, my father rarely talked to me unless I was in trouble, so what he said at the table seems to carry added weight. So food, at least my father's food, has been imbued with destructive messages like, "There is something wrong with you" "You are not good enough." "You are not worthy." and, "You are an absolute failure." And, as a child, he used my lack of appreciation for his cooking, my lack of desire to eat anything but pickles, snow cones, peanut butter sandwiches and bean burritos, as evidence for all of these messages. Contemplaating the sardine quesadilla, these messages flooded my brain and I felt like I was 12 years old. I could not connect with that adult part of me that knows how to be present and breathe.
Fortunately, my parents are old school Methodist (they don't drink), so there are no bottles to drown in. Instead, after dinner, I picked up my guitar and tortured them with my latest songs. At least my father appreciates a good twang when he hears it, and honey, when I'm in Texas, I sing with a twang. My mother, well, bless her heart, she has never really cared much for music, but she at least tried to smile and pretend she enjoyed it. I comforted myself with the thought that the damage I was inflicting on her wouldn't be permanent because she'd probably forget that I sang to her anyway. Unfortunately, when the truth of this thought sunk in, my heart almost exploded and my eyes teared up.
Today, my dad and I went on a road trip -- father, daughter bonding. We dropped off the recycling and he told me that the psychiatrist had declared that Mom's memory had declined sharply in the last 6 months and that she was going to need extra care soon. His goal, he said, was to try to wait until after Christmas. We talked about logistics - the need to do some renovation on the house, where they would move - near my brother and his wife or near other family near Dallas, and what kind of facility they would look for. Suddenly, he's no longer the "old man" that used to yell at me and call me a loser, and I'm not the 12 year old who can't do anything right. He's the man who has confessed to me via e-mail how hard it is to watch a once vibrant and alive woman stumble around in confusion. He is the man who, no matter what, loved and still loves my mother. And he is the man who holds my tears when they leak out as I confess that it breaks my heart to think about what it must be like to be inside her head, realizing that she's confused and not be able to do anything about it.
Reflecting on this encounter back at the house, I am struck by how much I have let my memories color the here and now. Ram Dass, (yes, I'm on a Ram Dass kick,) notes, "In our relationships, how much can we allow them to become new, and how much do we cling to what they used to be yesterday?" I spent my teenage years hating my father, mostly because I didn't think he loved me back and hatred seemed less painful than disappointment. Ram Dass's words provide an interesting challenge: Can I see my father for the man he is, not the monster I thought he was. Can I, the woman I have become, "be here now," with the man he has become?
Damned if Ram Dass doesn't point to an answer. He says, “Your problem is you are too busy holding on to your unworthiness.” And it's true. I feel guilty for not being a good enough daughter. He may have given me the messages, but I'm the one that believed them for years, even when I was old enough to understand that his condemnation came from a very hurt and angry place. And now, watching my mother drift off into never never land (only she's not smiling), part of me feels like I should be able to "fix" her too. I am a counselor. I have a Ph.D. I know a lot about energy work and massage and herbal treatments. But the reality is that it's Mom's dementia, 76, Regina, 0. And no one even really knows how to "fix" dementia. Not me, not her psychiatrist, not Superman, not Peter Pan... no one.
To finish, again with Ram Dass: “Our whole spiritual transformation brings us to the point where we realize that in our own being, we are enough.” At least this is easier than trying to “fix” my mother’s dementia. And it’s a lot better on the liver than quaffing Pearl beer with vodka chasers.
Originally appeared in Columbus Outlook in 2008