Unmoored

Spare a kind thought for my beloved Sequoia tonight, who is driving south through a snow storm to help his dad. It’s, what, the third or fourth time he’s been down there in the last three months. His dad Ken is in a vulnerable place as he transitions into the last stage of his life. He’s in a steep decline but can’t see it, can’t accept the reality of his own disintegration. Sequoia has shown remarkable patience, kindness and support to his father. No surprise there, that's the kind of man he is.

Our parents become our children and we become the grown ups, making the hard decisions, setting the boundaries, paying the bills. Well, that’s what happens if we’re lucky; I wasn’t granted the privilege of caring for my mom, and dad didn’t last long after she was gone. He didn’t recover from her death. Like Ken, he descended rapidly into confusion and paranoia, but he always had one heartbreaking focus that kept him chained to reality: he knew my mom was gone.

Ken doesn’t have a focus. He has forgotten Sequoia’s mother, is quickly forgetting his second wife who died last year. He seems – unmoored. Lost in the present. It’s heartbreaking, but it is what it is and must be faced. We can’t leave him adrift and alone. His life must change.


So my beloved Sequoia is going down with love, compassion and determination in his heart to help his father. His father may not see it that way. If I ever find myself in Ken's position, if God grants me that many years, may I have the wisdom and courage to trust my daughters in the way I wish Ken would trust Sequoia.