I woke from the strangest dream just
a few days ago. I was standing on Beaver
Lane West, the road where my parents built the home that they loved, the road
where they raised me. Down the road,
close to Dick Farrell’s old house, comes a beat-up Ford LTD police car, driven
by a young police officer that I didn’t know.
It was really beat-up. Rusted. As will happen in dreams, I found myself
behind the wheel. Every part of the car
was shaky and loose, the floorboard were paper-thin, the gear shift wobbled, the
steering wheel shook in my hands. There
was no way I could drive this thing.
Then, as will happen in dreams, I was
back outside, talking to police officers who were sitting in lawn chairs on the
edge of the street. I couldn’t place
their faces, but I knew I knew them.
They grinned and told me, no way you can drive that thing, Maya, but
your dad could get it fixed up. Your dad’s gotta drive this thing.
I began to wake up. Confused. Why was I dreaming of Westhampton and police
officers? I have final papers to grade,
a class to prepare for, Christmas shopping to do. As I came to consciousness, at 6:30 on Monday
morning, I heard my husband say, Maya, Sunrise is calling. I reached out for my cell phone, next to my
bed, in a place I never usually keep it.
Sunrise, the assisted living facility where my father has resided for
the last 4 years. Sunrise. Three missed calls. I knew without dialing that Dad was
gone. I had gotten that same early
morning call, at what I will say was exactly the same time, when my beautiful
mom left us. Through my tears, I
thought, at last. At last, his body and mind are his own again. At last he is with his love.
Alzheimer’s is the cruelest
thief. She is not just a thief of
memory. She is invidious.
Remorseless. Stealing away the very
things that make a great man like my father who he was. Slowing stealing away
his creativity, his charisma, his character.
All the things that made the people in this room love him. Dad did all of the things you are supposed to
do to avoid Alzheimer’s. He was incredibly physical fit, working out every
morning with hand weights and karate stances.
After his retirement, he kept busy, caring for my mother, for their
house, and for their friends. Always
tinkering and fixing things, sketching a new stained glass pattern, researching
the antique weapon a friend brought by the house. Keeping his mind active with games and
puzzles. Refinishing my rusted red wagon
for his grandson’s 3rd birthday.
None of those things were spared, in the end. He did, however, charm the staff and
residents at Sunrise. He never quite gave up his role as protector and defender
of others. During Hurricane Sandy, even
when they had no power, Dad walked around the facility, putting his hand on the
shoulders of the staff, and telling them, as best he could, that everything
would be okay. Even as the disease
claimed his ability to communicate, dad walked laps and rearranged the
furniture there, every day (I suspect he could hear my mother’s voice telling
him how that table should be placed, just so).
We celebrated dad’s 83rd
birthday this fall, October 30th, the birthday he shared with my
mother (and their wedding anniversary, just the week before). His good friend and neighbor, Angie Lombardo,
is also residing at Sunrise now. She
came upstairs to visit dad with me, and with my dear friend, Elena. Dad sat in
a spot in the sun, happily surrounding by gossiping women. Occasionally his
eyes would focus, and he would smile. When Angie rose to go, she shook his
hands (hard), calling his name. Jim, she
said, I have to go. I love you. Happy
birthday. And she kissed him on both
cheeks, as only an Italian grandmother can kiss. He focused his eyes, again for just a moment,
and said thank you. Somewhere, deep inside, he recognized, perhaps not our
faces or our identities, but that he was surrounded by people who loved him.
Today, I appreciate the love and
regard that this community has shown him. He fell in love with this place when
he came here in the military, and never left. Years later, I visited our
family’s ancestral home in co. Wicklow, Ireland. The village of Greystones, perched on the
edge of the Irish Sea. It’s a charming resort community, listed in travel
magazines as having some of the best quality of life in the world. I think Westhampton must have seemed deeply
familiar.
Even as a newly-minted police
officer, Jim believed that the best way to keep a community safe as a police
officer was to build relationships, to not be “hard-nosed”, but to truly get to
know and create friendships – with residents full-time and summer, with
shopkeepers and bar-owners, with journalists, with local politicians, with his
fellow officers, and I think most importantly to him, young people. He worked particularly hard to show kids in
this community that police officers were allies and role models. When a crisis
happened, he was calm, and totally present for the people affected.
As I was writing this, I realized if
I started to tell stories, we would be here for days … I’ve remembered, and
been told, and discovered so much, even in the past week. But you know these stories, you’ve lived them
with him, or heard them around the dinner table at Basso’s or on my parent’s
back porch. That’s the image I want to leave you with. We’ve proudly celebrated
dad’s career here. But what I am prouder
of, what both of my cousins, and what Rabbi Moss have also said so well, is how
much Jim and Marie Doyle adored each other.
Their love for each other enfolded me, made my very life and who I am
possible. It gives Jason and I vital
lessons in how to be a family, and how to raise this beautiful boy, their
grandson Torben. And they left a little
of that love in each of you who are here today.
Please carry them with you, together, holding hands, talking, solving
problems, holding hands, working in their yard, walking, laughing, holding
hand, raising a toast. They have each other back now. I will miss them forever. They found such joy
in each other and in their lives with all of you. So I hope, in this holiday
season that they loved and enjoyed so much, you will leave here, not just with
sadness, but with joy
Maya Doyle
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