Passing

We gave thanks this past holiday for a life well-lived. My father-in-law, Emile, died the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. 

I look at this picture of him, as a young man, and see someone I didn't get to know until the end of his life. Emile and I were quite different personalities. He was structured, rule-following, and not a risk taker. He grew up in extreme poverty, a Franco-American in a state where discrimination against Franco-Americans was rampant at the start of the 20th Century. It was another of those threads of history, when an immigrant group speaking a different language and worshiping a different religion (Catholicism), heated the flames of fear and angst in this country. Despite the fact that they were hard-working, looking for a better life (the American Dream?), their difference ignited that primitive "Us vs. Them" reactivity. It was difficult to be Franco-American and find a good job prior to WWII. 

Like many children of immigrants, Emile was drafted to fight in that world war. He served in the Coast Guard on and LST, facing the horrors of Anzio, Salerno, and Normandy. He survived but was traumatized for much of his life. Trauma showed itself in his obsessive need for routine and structure, meals at certain times, not being willing to explore new routes to destinations, relying on rules to create a sense of safety. He tracked every meal, every carbohydrate, logging it in ledgers and on index cards. It took a toll, but despite that he found good work, gained certification as an engineer, and provided a good life for his family of four. He loved to dance, and he and my mother-in-law spent many Friday's dancing at the local senior dances. He continued this after she died. Simple pleasures were his. 

Anyone who knows me will attest to my inability to follow a structured routine, or to be disciplined and organized in my daily life. I tend to not censor what comes out of my mouth, often to a fault. I can still see Emile shaking his head, perplexed, at the way I live my life. It made me feel self conscious to be around him. I felt I was always stepping on his toes, so-to-speak. I was a bad dance partner. 

However, when he began to show signs of dementia, there was a change. Dementia, which can wreck such havoc, actually seemed to relieve his trauma symptoms, a bit. He often forgot to worry about all the rules over which he had obsessed. He developed quite a sweet tooth, and a love for baked goods, which I was thrilled to bring to him. It allowed us to connect. it felt good to be able to have a new relationship. He'd smile during visits, laughed easily, had a good sense of humor. We'd "hug it out" at the beginning and ending of visits and the warmth was genuine. I felt like I was getting to know the young man in that picture on top of this post. 

Now, I am in no way saying dementia was good. But, there is no question that for Emile, while it brought some frustration (and even that did not seem to really plague him), it also brought him a little peace from his fears and anxieties. 

Death came before dementia erased his ability to know his children, to remember their names, and to remember that he was loved. I am so grateful for that.