When my parents came to my cabin this morning I discovered I had thrown away an envelope last night with 200 euros in it. The money was in a shore excursion envelope that I carelessly tossed it in the trash. The wastebaskets in our cabin are emptied twice daily and on a ship this size finding my envelope with 200 euros gives new meaning to the idea of looking for a needle in a haystack.
As hard as I tried to let go of my frustration, my frustration at my carelessness colored my attitude. When we walked off the ship we discovered at least 80 other passengers trying to get taxis. Two local tourism representatives tried to assist us, but their English was poor and their resources were as slim as the cabs. After about 40 minutes finally shared a cab with 4 other passengers to get to the Hertz office. As we left the port area, we passed a Hertz office that I didn’t know existed—the one I chose was 20 miles away. Casey was chattering incessantly about Christmas, the heat, why people speak French and when could we go back onboard. He loves being on the ship and now views most shore excursions as annoying interruptions from his time on Nautica. It’s hard to get him enthused about museums, scenery and shopping after our safari.
We arrived at the Hertz office and waited another half hour in a clammy office while the agent helped one other customer. I had forgotten how long paperwork sometimes takes in ports. It wasn’t as bad as getting a SIM card in India, but it felt familiar. I had brought two CD’s, one of Christmas music and the other some classical music that my dad enjoys. I imagined us driving to the famous volcano, listening to beautiful music, enjoying each other’s company and getting into the holiday spirit. Christmas is in two days, and it’s been hard to feel the spirit of the season in the heat of Africa. The CD player in the car didn’t work. I went back in to see if I was doing something wrong, but the agent couldn’t get music to play either and no other car was available. Shrugging it off we set out along the beautiful seacoast. The blue water shimmered in the tropical sun and I started to get excited by the beauty.
“Does this remind you of any place Dad?”
He was slow to respond. His voice is softer now from the Parkinson’s and it’s more difficult to hear him. “It looks a little like the California coast.”
“That’s what I was thinking too! Somewhere north of Santa Barbara and south of Hearst Castle.”
“My stomach hurts!” Casey complained.
“What do you mean?”
“It hurts!”
“Are you nauseous? Do you have cramps?”
“I feel like puking!” He said.
“I feel a little carsick too,” my dad said. The road we drove wove along the meandering coastline and there were two more hours of scenic windy roads to reach the volcano.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go to the volcano…” I suggested. My mom caught my eye and nodded silently in agreement.
“Why don’t we drive to St-Leu and try to find your dad an optometrist?” She suggested. My dad had three errands to accomplish: fixing his glasses, finding a small pair of scissors and getting a haircut. He is mostly bald and didn’t want to pay for a barber on the ship. St-Leu was a charming seaside town. I dropped my parents off at an eyeglass shop on the narrow main street while I tried to find a parking place with. The shopkeeper fixed his glasses, refused to charge him and gave him directions to a barber.
“He told us he doesn’t get too many American visitors,” my mom said. “He was really nice. He had really long
dreadlocks and when he saw your fathers hair length he laughed, but he told us where to find a barber.” As we walked down the village street we noticed a large stone church. “Let’s go in,” I suggested. Reunion Island is predominantly Catholic and my parents used to enjoy visiting cathedrals in Europe. It was a simple chapel. Two women prayed in the front and candles were lit all around the perimeter. The only stained glass was a dove of peace set in an archway over the entrance. It felt good being there. We couldn’t find the barber so we decided to drive to the next town, St-Louis. Maybe the day will get better, I thought.
When we get to the rental car, my dad couldn’t get his legs in. It was only about 8 inches from the sidewalk to the doorframe, but he lost the ability to lift his high enough to get in the car. Just a few weeks ago he was able to climb into a Land Rover on safari, but now he needed help. My mom and I exchanged glances, both of us struggling with this new dimension of his condition.
I tried to keep my feelings in check but it was hard. My mom was wonderful with him, she gently lifted his ankles and positioned him in his seat, but it was obvious to both of us that something was wrong. When my dad was out of earshot I pulled her aside, “Maybe it’s the heat?” I suggested.
She shook her head, “I don’t think so. I think it’s the disease. He is so stiff and sore now. The last few days have been really difficult for him… I’m glad this isn’t our Hong Kong to Athens trip. There were so many interesting ports and I don’t think he can do them anymore.” I knew this trip wasn’t going the same as our 35-day trip from Hong Kong to Athens in 2007. No two trips are ever the same, even if you travel the same ground, but I had hoped that we could recapture some of the joy we had then. In a way we have. We are together, making the best of circumstances as they are, but now my mom and I are watching my father slip away with the passing of days and weeks. I talk to other passengers my dad’s age, I watch them causally eat their dinners, talk to their wives, swim in the pool and I feel anger and grief. Why can’t my dad have that? Why can’t he still talk and walk like he used to? Why does he have to slip away from us a day at a time. The worst thing about a disease like Lewy Body’s is that I know what’s coming, but I secretly hope that in my dad’s case it will be different. That he will wake up one day the man he was at 75. And though my mind knows that won’t happen, my heart believes he will never die, that things won’t change, that he will always be there capable, vital and strong.
We arrived in St. Louis and I spotted a barber ship. I escorted my dad in. We were the only white men in the shop. The dark skinned locals looked at us strangely, but they scooted over and made room on the couch. They made us feel welcome. Most of the barbers and customers were under 25, tattooed, wearing gold chains and slapping their hands together in strange, elaborate hand shakes, but the man behind the register was in his 50’s and he came over and made sure my dad was next on the list for a haircut. We sat in front of a flat screen TV watching images of black rappers in Florida surrounded by seductive women and expensive yachts. Outside the barbershop door was
12-foot sign advertising Johnny Walker Red. All I could see was sex and alcohol and the young men around me enjoying both. As the TV flashed from sexy young bodies to parties my dad asked me a question.
“So you didn’t know my father met your grandpa?” My mom had been telling Casey about my dad’s father in the car.
“No, I didn’t.”
“They came over the first Christmas your mother and I were married. We went to your grandparents in Chehalis. I said goodbye to my father in early January. By the end of the month he was dead,” the buzzing of the air conditioning and rap music made it hard to hear, but I struggled to get every word.
“How did he die?” I never knew my dad’s father. He died four years before I was born. I only knew my dad’s mother as a widow. She died almost 40-years later than her husband.
“His intestine ruptured. They took him to this hospital but they couldn’t save him.” My dad’s eyes welled up. I didn’t know if he was crying or if it was from his medication. His eyes water all the time now and he sometimes stares off vacantly into space.
All the time I’ve known my dad, all the years he raised his kids are after the death of his father. I can’t imagine living that much life without my dad. It hasn’t been till the last few years when his mortality has become stark, inevitable and unavoidable that I’ve started to struggle with the natural reality that soon he will be gone and I will remain. In my effort to cope I’ve read books, talked to therapists and shared my feelings with my family and friends.
After the haircut my dad slept in the car. He had no energy. We got lost going back to the ship, but eventually I found it. I dropped my parents and Casey off at the dock and I went to return the rental car. Feelings washed over me and I pulled to the side of the road crying. I needed time to grieve the gradual loss of the man I admire more than any other. I’m wise enough to know that no one will ever replace my dad.
The beauty of the island, the frustration of losing the money, all were eclipsed today by what happened with my dad. I know this is a sad story—not what you expect in a travel commentary, but if you’ve stuck with it this long you’re either a friend or a kindred spirit. I can’t sign off without saying how good life is. Many years ago I was hurt so badly I vowed never to feel again. Now I am grateful for all the feelings—the more intense they are the more I believe they help me develop and grow. The only “bad” feelings are the repressed ones. I’m spending time with my son, I’m showing him how to treat his elders, I’m helping my mom as she experiences the same feelings I do, and the depth of my gratitude for my opportunity to be on a cruise now knows no bounds. We are surrounded by kind people, compassionate staff and an easy world to navigate—I don’t think life gets much better than enjoying it with people you love on Oceania—and I know I’ve been richly blessed to be here.
My dad will be OK. Carl Jung says life is a short pause between two great mysteries. By definition a mystery is unknown, but I know in my soul, as surely as I know my father loves me, that death and disease won’t end our relationship. The ties that truly bind us are greater than time and space. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and sometime after a superb dinner I’ll take Casey to my mom and dad’s cabin so we can hear him read us the Christmas story like he’s done every Christmas Eve I can remember.
Thanks for reading.
Jack
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