A TALE OF TWO SHOES

When I was a brand new missionary in Korea, what we call a greenie, my great-great-Aunt Phoebe died. She was my great-grandfather’s sister, if that makes it more clear. Auntie Phoebe was the first Korean Mother Superior in the Episcopalian Church. When she and her brother, my great-grandfather, were born, Episcopalian missionaries were in Korea. They had penicillin, which was a miracle to a country with such a high mortality rate that not only is the 1st birthday met with huge celebration, but the first 100 days of survival, as well. My great-grandfather and his little sister survived. Their parents converted to Christianity. In gratitude, they dedicated their daughter to the church.

I heard about Auntie Phoebe’s death and funeral plans from my mission president, after he had been informed by my mother. Realizing it would be a big loss of face if I were in the country but couldn’t attend her funeral, the president sent my companion and I up to Seoul, where we stayed at the mission home overnight.

We arrived at the church in time for the family mass, which was held downstairs in a private room. Just immediate family, and all the nuns in the nunnery. (I think that’s what it’s called…?)

Now, for those of you who aren’t familiar with Asian culture, we take our shoes off when we go inside a home. This room was more intimate, and homelike, so everyone had taken their shoes off at the door. There were probably 30 pairs of black slip on shoes in neat little rows.

After the family mass, which I didn’t understand at all because I spoke no Latin and my Korean at two weeks in country was pretty inadequate, we all went up to the cathedral.

I wanted to show deference, so of course, my companion and I waited until everyone had filed out. Small problem. Literally. The only shoes left were my companion’s black loafers, and a tiny pair of black slip-ons that could only belong to one of the many tiny nuns who had all gone upstairs. I looked at my companion, she looked at me, and I tried on Cinderella’s slippers. They were like putting on a child’s shoe. I probably had 3 toes in and I was just shuffling along with the rest of the shoe ending somewhere in the middle of my arch.

So, I scuffled and slid my way into the beautiful cathedral. I couldn’t enjoy the beauty of observing another religion and how they partook of the Sacrament, because I WAS CHECKING OUT THE FEET OF EVERY FREAKING NUN WHO WALKED PAST ME TO TAKE COMMUNION! I have never felt such a strong desire to laugh at the absurdity of the situation and cry because how would I find my shoes? We had to stay together as companions, 24/7, so it’s not like I could send Sister Fletcher out to find me the first pair of size 7 1/2s that she could. I was going to have to tiptoe around in these children’s size slippers until some solution presented itself!

After the mass was over, I saw a face I knew-my grandfather! He had flown in from Hawaii to attend the funeral. The first words out of my mouth were, “Grandpa! My shoes!” He disappeared for a few moments and was able to have one of the boss nuns find out who was wearing giant shoes. Relief! We got them switched and all was right with the world! My grandfather’s sister, Auntie Cecilia, came over to hug me and we tried to communicate, but she turned to my red-headed, white Utah-born and bred companion and said, “Oh, her Korean’s not very good yet, is it?” (The problem with foreign languages is that you always can understand more than you can say.) I totally translated THAT comment without any problem. 😊 All ended well and we went back to the very southern tip of Korea, back to our area. With all our shoes.

IS IT THE UPSIDE DOWN?

I share this story, because I wonder what my dad’s brain is doing. Does he have moments where he feels like he has lost his shoes in a foreign country and there are very few familiar faces? That people around him are talking, and he can understand some, but not very much? Or frustration because his speech has gotten so slow with this disease that it feels like a foreign language?

I wonder if he knows that he has dementia. I think sometimes he knows something is wrong, but since this kind of dementia isn’t like Alzheimer’s, it’s not a steady progression of memory loss. Sometimes, he will think in the middle of our conversation that I’m my sister. To be fair, we sound exactly alike on the phone, to the point that our husbands usually can’t tell for a minute. But he will also time jump–calling some of his grandsons to go fishing when they all live in different places in the country. And they’re not 11 or 12 anymore.

Sometimes, if I’m helping him with a meal, I will ask him if his fork is going to his mouth or if he’s done. He will just tell me he doesn’t know. He needs help moving the fork up and down or he gets distracted and stuck.

When I see this, my brilliant, witty father, just trying to make sense of a simple act like whether or not he’s taken a bite, I pray that he doesn’t know. That he’s not cognizant of the degree to which he has left us. That he can give you accurate directions somewhere, but over a year ago he had to knock on a neighbors door to ask someone to call my brother, because he couldn’t remember how to get to either of their houses. That some days he knows my granddaughters’ names, but others he struggles to remember my kids’ names. That he took apart an entire flashlight a couple of weeks ago, every single piece, just to get to the lightbulb. Which is burned out. So I ordered him some new ones. But I will never forget going in to wake him up and finding all the little pieces laid out on the bed next to him. Like one of my children, with LEGOs or some other little thing they were working on and it had to go to bed with them.

I wonder if he feels like he’s in the Upside Down (if you haven’t seen Stranger Things, drop what you’re doing and watch it. NOW.) Maybe we are fading to him, the same way he’s starting to disappear.

I have to believe God is merciful enough to protect him from the reality of his brain dying. I can’t think of anything more terrifying than not knowing what’s happening and also being totally cognizant that you don’t know what’s happening. Wait, I just described a lot of parenthood. But you know what I mean. I wish he could tell me that he’s afraid, or scared, or confused. But I don’t even know if that’s possible. Maybe the Upside Down is just a place that’s scary for me. Because I have no real way to reach through and say, “Dad, I’m here. I love you. You’re ok.”

(On the other hand, this might explain his recent obsession with having Christmas projector lights on. INSIDE.)