Marion and Dad and Facebook

So it's the other side of midnight, inching towards the spectre of an unwelcome all-nighter. I've had way too much caffeine today--two large strong coffees plus two double espressos, and way too much rich food---large Israeli feast and a huge piece of the most deadly chocolate mousse cake, and too much red wine. It was my lovely Israeli-Belgian friend Marion's combo 50th birthday and bon voyage party. She's seizing the moment and moving back to Israel in a few weeks. Her heart and soul are there, and so she's decided, together with her husband and two teenage sons, to follow her bliss even if it means her husband commutes from his career here and her oldest flies off to his first year at Tufts.

I rarely if ever eat like this, but I needed to fill an emptiness that was filling me with almost out of body anxiety.

I'm going to Israel for the first time in a little over a week. I'll be gone for two weeks and I am scared to death because although I am leaving while both parents are stable, at home, and going about their business, I have to be "okay" with the fact that my Dad's health is precarious at best, that my Mom tends to fall and hurt herself, and that anything --god forbid--can happen, even with their two and a half caregivers and 24 hour care.

They are equally anxious, probably even more so, because not only am I not going to be here for sixteen days, I am also going to a place that although almost always life goes on and nothing happens, is dangerous. That has always been the refrain of why I stay home: who will take care of them if something happens to me? I can't put them through "that".

A couple of days ago my Dad figured out how to get himself on Facebook. He'd heard everyone talk about it, and, so, somehow, he found the sign on page and registered. That's a pretty amazing feat for a nearly 87 year old man who suffers from diabeties and dialysis caused-dementia, who forgets more than he remembers and understands little where he once comprehended so much. But once he created his basic page, he could not remember how to get back on. He could not remember how to sign on again, or his password. It was like the person who had succeeded has suddenly failed miserably. During my daily check in phone call, he was upset, which had my Mom asking me for help.

So remotely, from the safety of my home computer, I reset his password and created his Facebook page. I added his favorite quote, the one all of us have ingrained in our collective family memory, said at least once a day to Ruthie Dear, but now only when he remembers: "Have I ever told you you're getting more and more beautiful as the days go by?" I added his obsession with Bach, his favorite TV show Seinfeld. I gave him a status update: Hyman is in dialysis for the next few hours and then back home to Ruthie Dear...

I was feeling pretty smug about all this, and even though it was about him, for him, the truth is it was more about me: It was fun, I could feel like I did something for him and it was another distraction from seious work I didn't want to do.

I stopped by their house on my way to Marion's party. Dad was sitting at the dinner table, clearly exhausted from his dialysis treatment. I explained I fixed his Facebook page. He was confused as to the terms, like log in and password and friend request. I wanted to get out of there and brushed off his frustration with my standard refrain: "I'll be over later this week and show you how to do it...gotta jet now." Too much in a rush, always convincing myself I am just too busy, too jammed, with really important things to do, (like sit in traffic) to spend more time lest I lose what is left of my so called important independent life.

Dad just looked at me, so incredibly sad, and started to cry. "I'm sorry you have to help me, I'm sorry I don't remember how, I'm sorry....I'm a burden." I kissed him and said don't worry, I will help you, it's okay, nothing to be sorry about....

Sitting in traffic on the way to the party I began to feel it. That panic of what I will feel when the inevitable happens, and I am here alone. I am terrified of loss. Really truly terrified.

Dad has decided to go to a breakfast meeting at Cedars at 7:30 AM. It's his first one in years. The driver will pick him up along with the caregiver and he will have his beloved bagels that he's not allowed and then come home. Stay tuned for his status update.