Fading faces; lost stories:

Losing lives to time’s disintegration…and dementia’s.

Lost stories, lost faces. Lost and fading time.

Such is exactly life, right? As we age, as Dad is showing us, we lose things. Some things we drop and let go of intentionally (farm equipment, red pickup trucks with their still rusty hitch balls, hop acreage, weeds, some of the back-breaking work, the worry, the mortgages, the dance shoes—sadly); others we would have liked to have held on to some more (friends who’ve died; walking and going to the bathroom independently; the parish presidency; some of the back-breaking work; at least one tractor, please; the dance shoes; …a spouse). But still, in the end, we lose everything.

And in doing so, not ironically because it’s the destiny for each and every one of us, we gain eternity and beauty and awe and space and light. Said differently, we lose everything, but gain it all—even when we hold on to the fear of that unknown place, in our waning days, when we don’t trust this faith-gift truism of the Universe, of our ‘true nature’ being. That “destination: home” is always there, waiting for us to return.

But first, things fade away.

Or they are lost.

Among so many other things, Dad’s Journey Home includes the loss of things. But not just any “thing,” it has included the loss of stories and faces. And because of that, and the fact Dad never wrote things down, nor talked about them often or if at all, nor taught us, nor passed on his own oral history and traditions, nor sat with us to go through the photo album that was his life (both literally and figuratively), we, his kids, find ourselves with an incomplete history of our Dad. What could have been priceless stories of his past, are now ephemeral ghosts gone to the ages; and those not yet fully there are heading toward the ages past with each passing and illusory moment, soon stored only amidst and among the fleeting synapses of his disconnecting brain.

Cases in point:

There are some things from Dad’s past that I know he knew, because I remember hearing bits and pieces of them, but are no longer cognitively available for a telling and a hearing again. We can be in conversation and he’ll remember a thread of his past—but then cannot either find the words to continue building from the thread, or the images and memories themselves have painlessly faded away—as if it were a picture “washed out” from constant exposure to the sun due to the ravages of time. These include past memories of his schooling, past classmates, past girlfriends and best friends; past dreams, and memories of holidays, and family, and Christmases and traditions; past pastimes and hobbies, how he spent idle summer days and weekends other then dance hall days (‘cuz those, some of those, he’s holding on to still…and thankfully).

Or take this for example:

That’s high school graduate Wally Lenseigne—formally capped and gowned in his white-shoed dapperness. But he’s lost who those other people are. So it’s fascinating to wonder and piece together from the mystery of why those people? Who are they? Why are they so important to have needed to be memorialized in a picture during an important time in my Dad’s life? And where is/was that beautiful brick house?

They are lost to Dad now. Lost to time. Faces dissolved in dissolving neurons. A chapter of a life now erased as if it were never written.

Damn.

Or this:

Okay, first, check out my stylin,’ way-before-he-was-my-Dad, Dad there on the left. The man could ROCK t-shirts, flip flops, Bermudas, and a man-purse! Yes, we have a picture of my Dad with a man-purse! (Okay, maybe it’s a camera case, but I’m sticking with man-purse). And look at those biceps!

Dad knows his less stylish friend there on the right, but he can tell us nothing else. Could that be in Hawaii? Is that a mountain range off in the distance there, or the ocean? He thinks he took a trip to Hawaii though that really surprises the hell out of us (‘cuz, you know, we know our Dad—but how thrilling is it to learn we really don’t know THIS strapping and vital young man! And how sad that is for us—‘cuz we’re never gonna meet him. THAT is our eternal loss. I would have loved to have met that man to hear his stories!). Is that a pineapple field he’s standing in? The woman appears to be pointing to a pineapple. But wait, who the heck is that woman? And why her in the picture? And why stand in a field anyway—just a “spur of moment” touristy thing to do? Or is he looking for weeds to burn?

Or this:

Yep, I say with pride, THAT is my mom and Dad. Look how way ahead of the world they were in their acceptance of transgender people!

Okay, NOT!

Obvi a pic of Dad and mom in their Sunday best just before leaving our Toppenish home for Sunday mass at St. Aloysius.

Okay, NOT!

Obvi likely a Halloween (let’s HOPE!) party. Dad doesn’t remember much about this—DANG IT! But it IS evidence he had a sense of humor with some whimsy added in—not to mention he was willing to dress in drag. Gosh…man purses and drag…. Who knew? My Dad???

Who the heck knew???

THE key point, here, is WE wouldn’t! We wouldn’t know! There is absolutely no doubt, had we not have picture evidence, that this brief yet important part of Dad’s story, would have been lost to us forever. As it is, most of the story now is inaccessible—even to its author. Because this story, again, is among all those becoming lost to faded memory, courtesy of dementia. And non-Eldering.

All photographs have stories behind them—but with no storyteller, photographs can never be complete. With no teller of the story, all that is left are endless, tantalizing questions from future viewers of the incomplete images that are themselves fading from existence. And then we’re left with nothing.

Or this:

First, thank god those are plastic mannequins or else there’d be a lot of “‘splainin’ to do, Ricky-boy.” Sadly, not a man-purse in sight. It is likely, though we aren’t sure, ‘cuz Dad isn’t sure, that it is mom taking the picture…maybe? After they were married, I don’t think Dad ever took a vacation without mom—the few vacations he actually allowed for himself. But where are they? Where was this taken, and why? Reno? Vegas? Knott’s Berry Farm? Moxee in the 70’s? Who’s idea was it to snap this photo? And what is he drinking?

I just like to note, for the record, THAT bench is not the bench that was memorialized for Dad on the grounds of Holy Rosary Church!

Or this remarkable picture:

Now, this picture was among the things of Dad’s that we discovered when we moved him out of his last home. THAT is not baby Wally because those are not Gpa Viktor or Gma Ida. If that IS baby Wally, gosh, THAT’s a story for the ages!!! But, no, it’s not. If anything, the photo is from mom’s side (the matriarch could resemble Gma Mary; so maybe some family who are reading this post might know?).

The point in including this photograph is to nail home the essential human truth that we lose faces the longer we are on our Journey—unless we Elder others, that is; unless we tell our stories to others who will listen and find value in the listening. The eight beautiful people in this remarkable photo, from a time we do not know (the pic is undated), are lost to the past forever. So in a sad and kind of final way, they have truly died (a callout from a past post: “When does a person truly die? When they are no longer remembered!”). Dad has no idea who they are or why he would have that picture among his things. And neither he, nor mom, ever shared its story with us.

So with no story, and faces lost to transient memory, we are left only with wonder.

And that is more than a little sad.

“If you don’t remember somebody out loud, they die twice.”

Eldering 101:

Herein lay the absolute value in Eldering—one’s life stories will fade and become lost for all time unless they have been given away to others, through their telling and retelling, so as to keep them alive. There is only one person that can start that chain of everlasting living memory—the one person who lived it from the start. And that can never happen if we don’t simply stop amidst our busy lives, put our devices down, and say:

“Hey, I have a great story to tell you! Have a seat and a hot oatmilk latte and listen up. Please.

“It’s how you’ll help keep me alive.”

This is also what we lose when we don’t have, find, or create Elders in our lives. We, those of us who come after and are rummaging through the artifacts of a life left behind, are left only with wonder when we have no Elders among us. Instead, when the Oldsters among us who could’ve been Elders have died, all we are left with are the faded memories of times gone by, of faces lost to time, and of people who must have been important to us at one time only because we have an artifact of that “once-knowing,” whether that be a photograph, or costume, or red truck, or Bermudas and white flip flops inside man-purses, or dance shoes, or a ring. Or only a partial story that can no longer be woven back together even with the aid of an incomplete and faded photograph from a no-longer-known time.

We are trying to coax those stories from Dad—but it is clear they are fleeting and becoming fewer. And the slivers and threads that do exist are becoming more entangled with each other when they do come out such that the stories that do emerge don’t make sense. In an odd twist of human fate, the memories of different things he’s trying to combine into a logical narrative, that truly do not belong coherently together, is proof of the importance of story in our lives. And a solid argument for why those stories need to be passed on. But that takes Eldering…and Dad, till only recently, never knew to Elder us like that. And now the past is fading. And we, till only recently, are only now just asking…and wondering.

There are too many things, now, that we will never, ever know.

Another consequence of dementia, that. “Life slips by quickly, time waits for no one.” Dementia doesn’t just ravage the mind of the person with the diagnosis; the disease also impacts the lives and stories of those who were once in that mind—but also of those who should have heard those stories before the diseases’ onset. Before you can even realize, the time to wonder and ask and listen, passes through silently and without a trace—and then descendants are left only with wonder. So when an Older we care about is in front of us, we need to ask for their Eldering:

“Tell me about the time when….”

And if they can’t, because dementia has done its work of erasure…well, that has to be okay. Because even when you simply can’t get those stories back, they then become a part of our new story. And our obligation.

And therein is also the silver lining—the final destination of Dad’s Journey Home. He’s showing us the way with each step, even as they get lost to a time gone by—or if they are lucky, if we are lucky, kept alive through story. Through Dad’s Soul:

Dad’s pending invincibility is our silver lining.

And then he becomes our story to tell.

And in that boundless space of perfect light, he’ll remember everything. “So, about that man-purse…. Let me tell you a story.”

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T plus 138 days… and counting. Documenting memories that should never fade—unless they are never read. The experiences are happening now; the stories are ours for the future. And may they be in the future too. That is how we’ll keep Dad alive—in our hearts.

And if you are holding on to similar photos and stories, Dad would Elder by saying: “Find someone soon and show them the photos and tell your stories. You’ll do that not for yourself, but for them. And trust me, they’ll love that you’ll do that—if not now, then at some not so distant future, when they’ll no longer have you.”

It takes but one generation for the fading to become forever. May it not be our generation, anymore. Remember the faces; complete the photos by telling the stories.