Holy

After David retired from St. Vincent de Paul he volunteered in the food bank, so he was still coming to the Georgetown campus. I remember him walking around the administrative offices, stopping into different offices, all smiles. He would tell Ned Delmore, the Executive Director, "you are a holy man," with a grin and a laugh.

This was his refrain for many of the conversations he had, as his vocabulary by this time was severely limited. This was a mainstay phrase of his conversations for nearly a year. "You are a holy woman," he would tell Chris in the payroll department. It made people smile. It made David smile, which was always a pleasure to see. He was speaking simply, but with much feeling and emotion. His years of ministry to others was being boiled-down to these simple phrases, and his true spirit of contentment, playfulness, and meaningful reflection, shined through.

He stopped using that phrase after he moved into Gaffney House. Other gestures and emotion came through to those around him, but few words. I know he is capable of speech because there are times when he is effervescent and chatty (see previous blog). But more often than not, he doesn't speak much anymore.

Which is why a recent visit turned so delightful.

When I arrived today David was napping, sitting upright, on the couch. I nudged him awake. He looked around, then looked at me. Puzzled at first--he had just woken up--but then he smiled at me. "Walk?"he mumbled. Yes, and off we went. Once we got out the door, I asked him 'how are you feeling today?' He turned to me with a grin and said "I feel holy."

Wow! I was overcome with sweet memories of hearing this again. I repeated it back, and he nodded and smiled. I was surprised how deeply moved I was--that this recollection of a 'phrase gone by' had brought such a deeply satisfying and happy experience in me.

In reflecting on this it occurs to me that something else is happening; instead of always relying on the memories of when he was well, instead I was drawing from a time when his diminishment was well underway, and it still gave me joy.

The lesson for me was this: I can no longer wish or hope that David will return to his former self, and sometimes I think I keep that unreasonable hope alive by using the memory of him being well as my anchor of reference when I'm with him. While those memories are precious and will never leave me, to always rely on them reinforces an unrealistic expectation, and also takes away from what he offers us now: glimpses of himself shining through Alzheimer's.

And when it happens, it can be a sight to behold.

David at Easter Time

Ask anyone. David's favorite time of the religious year has always been Easter. I've never known a man who was so inspired with the hopeful message of the resurrection story. He loved the connection to the personal resurrections that we experience in our lives: our own life challenges and tragedies, our eventual recovery from them, and the newly-inspired purpose in life that often comes with the hardships we endure. He believed everyone could rise from their circumstances, and his message and counsel to those he served was consistent with that ideal.  

When I visited David on Good Friday, I found him bubbling with life, all smiles and laughs, with non-stop conversation about things going on in the house. What was striking was how positive he felt about his housemates at Gaffney House. Everything was said with such heartfelt inflection, that if often drew him to tears. Not from his own sadness, but from the goodness he was feeling about others.

David has the gift to see the goodness in others because he's in touch with his own goodness. He often spoke about how lucky he was in life--that even with its various complications--he enjoyed everything about it. He loved his family--was the 'teller of stories' and would captivate the room retelling often hysterically funny stories about family history. He was thankful for his ministry--the various roles he was able to play, and the people he was able to serve throughout his 43 years as a priest was very rewarding to him. He was grateful to have a partner in his life and the opportunity to share the hardships and triumphs of our personal journeys was a blessing to us both.

David is happy. He is still able to express that. It's up to us to enter that happiness with him, even when we don't understand his words.  Watch his expressions. Listen to the tone and inflection in his words.  Smile and laugh along with him.  And just play along.

Steve Knipp, 2014

Echoes of David

David and I were spending our usual Sunday morning together--which starts at the iHop Pancake House and moves on to mass at St. Ignatius--when he began to look around at all the people in the restaurant. His eyes began to glisten as he canvassed the various scenes of people. I asked him what he was thinking about. He looked at me with a look on his face that was deeply contemplative, with tears welling in his eyes. He pointed to the crowd of people in the restaurant, bottom lip quivering, and said:

"It's so nice to be alive...and to like people." 

One thing that has been incredibly difficult to accept of David's condition is the way his speech has been so severely limited, and his thoughts truncated. Words rarely come, and when they do, they are often one-word replies. David spent the bulk of his life inspiring others by the words he spoke, and I was fortunate to be the recipient of his words and feelings because of our long life together. In those few words, there was an undeniable echo of many conversations we have had in the past, and I can sometimes piece together what he means when the words he speaks are so few. The look on his face when he made this statement was genuine with a raw emotion that spoke volumes. 

David woke each morning with a fresh awareness of the gift that another day brings.  He enjoyed solitude in the mornings, and had a routine of reading the daily Mass Missal and reflecting on the teachings. His work with people with AIDS for over ten years gave him a deeper appreciation for life than most have, and impressed on him the gift that being alive brings. Life is a temporary condition, and the importance of appreciating it every day was not lost on him.  

Given his vocation, people were also the centerpiece of his daily activities. They came to him with their joys and sorrows, and his gentle presence was a comfort to thousands of people over his 40+ year career. His relationships were paramount to his experience of life, and the older and more experienced he became, the more profoundly he believed that people should not be alone in life, that having others in our lives adds a rich dimension that is unsurpassed by anything else life can offer. 

When David says "It's so nice to be alive...and to like people," the meaning is clear to me; even though he has lost so much--and I truly believe he knows this at some level--he can still appreciate the beauty of being alive. When we walk around the block, he looks around at the trees and the buildings and the people like he was seeing them for the first time. The care he receives from the good people at Gaffney House remind him that people are not only basically good, but indeed necessary. 

After he was initially diagnosed with Alzheimer's, he began to tell me and others that 

"I have a start of Alzheimer's in my life.

It's part of getting older.  But I believe we can be alive in new ways."

What David is saying, I believe, is that even with such a catastrophic loss, his joy for life remains, and his love for others persists. Even when he is unable to express it with words we can understand. 

Life at Gaffney House is....

....in a word: TRANQUIL.

Each time I've visited David over the past several weeks, I find him in the same places--either sitting on the couch--usually his head nodded downward and dozing--or walking around the yard very determinedly, or sitting in a chair in the front sitting room. Many of the other residents are doing much the same. One part of me thinks this must be terribly boring, but David appears by all accounts to be enjoying the peacefulness here. 

He is always eager to go for a walk when I arrive, and we've fallen into a nice routine--walking down to 15th Ave, stopping at Caffe Ladro for a coffee, then walking back. He doesn't say much, but every now and then he'll come out with a comment that seems out of nowhere. Last week I asked him what he was thinking about, and he pointed at a house we were walking by and said: "I was thinking about the guy who lives in that house--I've been waiting for him to get home."

OK.....

One could imagine all sorts of things this might have meant to him. David was very active for many years in this neighborhood, meeting people in their homes for various reasons, so perhaps he was having a recollection of this as we walked past. 

More likely though, it was probably a random thought that happened to be going through his mind when I asked the question. His mind is now operating under a completely different set of principles than yours or mine--our brains are these incredibly complex living organisms that sit inside our heads and go about business with complete autonomy. We have no idea--or control--of how this magnificent organ operates, and Alzheimer's disease has shown us how little we can do when things start malfunctioning. This disease has taken many great minds and turned them--and their families--upside-down.

One thing I love about going to Mass with him every Sunday is how others still approach him. He was a wildly popular priest, and spent over 40 years traveling around to all of the parishes in Western Washington. He knew that he had a special gift, but would rarely tout that as some kind of grand achievement. He was humble in the way of his mentor, Archbishop Raymond Hunthausen, and never sought out special privilege or status.

People see him at St. Ignatius and reach out to say hello and shake his hand. David always responds with a big smile and nod of his head, but it is immediately obvious that he is unable to speak a word. This often brings about a subtle change in the others' expression--from a big smile of recognition to one of--'oh, something is wrong.' Then they look to me. There is no need for me to say anything.

So while it's reassuring to know that David is comfortable and happy--and to share that everything seems to be OK with pictures of all smiles--the truth is rather different.  David has suffered from a breathtakingly fast diminishment. I find myself thinking about the horrible injustice of losing David in this way. Not only the loss to me and his family and close friends, but the loss to so many in the community that would still have access to such a brilliant light of goodness; his humorous and compassionate words when presiding from the pulpit, his unique, gentle way of explaining sometimes conflicting Catholic teachings, and his calming voice when visiting the sick and dying. There are few in this world who can reach out like he could, and our lives have also been diminished by this loss.

In the end, it comes down to this: instead of dwelling on the loss of what could have been, it's more enriching to see David where he is right now. Our memories of him provide the context we enjoy to remember him with, and my close connection to him has given me a special privilege of being with him and all that he was.

He's still here. We still love him.

Come 'ere, come 'ere, come 'ere...

There is a fellow resident at Gaffney House, an elderly African American woman, who is kinda known for the phrase she repeats over and over: "come 'ere, come 'ere, come 'ere, come 'ere"... these seem to be the only phrases she is able to express. I recently learned that she apparently is able to communicate in other ways--and David picked up on it.

The other day she was repeating her phrase over and over--but she seemed more agitated than usual. Jenn, one of the day managers, was trying to console her, when David came over and sat down next to them. She calmed down. David said nothing, but just sat there quietly with her. He stayed with her for quite some time.

When the staff retold this story to me, it was obvious to them knowing David's background as a priest--and someone who has sat with plenty of sick and dying people over his long career--that this was a purely instinctual reaching out for him. The manager was very moved, and thanked David for his generosity of spirit.

While his capacity to console with words has left him, his innate ability to reach out to those who are suffering or in distress is still very much with him.

Gaffney House Visit guidelines

David has been at his new residence, Gaffney House (1605 17th Ave, Seattle 98122) for two weeks now, and I'm happy to report that he is settling in nicely. The staff reports that he has been a welcome addition to the home, and he interacts with other residents in his usual friendly way.

Please feel free to visit David when you can. He welcomes visitors, and there is a few things to keep in mind:

1. Visiting hours are open to drop-in, and the best times to do that are between 9am-4:30pm. Lunch is usually from 12-12:30 and dinner is at 5pm. David goes to church and iHop on Sundays, so is not there between 10-2pm. To be sure he's there, please call 206-838-1930 to confirm he's home. Simply come to the house and ring the bell at the entry gate. A staff member will escort you to see David.

2. While David is still recognizing family and some close friends, don't expect that he's going to remember your name or be able to answer or respond to things you mention from his or your past. I've found it's best if you keep the conversation simple and low-key. Too much chatting or fast conversation will likely confuse him and he sometimes gets irritable.

3. You are welcome to walk him around the property inside the gates. I'd not suggest taking him for walk off the property unless you have done this before and have gotten instructions from the staff.

Please feel free to call or e-mail me if you have any questions.

Sunday schedule

Thanks to everyone who has responded so warmly to these e-mails about David. I enjoy hearing from you all, and so appreciate getting your notes that acknowledge and affirm our lives together in relationship. We recently celebrated our 21st anniversary together (September 21), and it's astonishing to me when I think about it!

This past week was an ordinary week--David is well and still laughs and smiles--as the pictures so wonderfully illustrate! We've been on several long walks in the neighborhood, and of course, iHop and St Ignatius on Sundays. Btw, that reminds me--wanted to let you know that David and I go to breakfast and Mass every Sunday, so he won't be there to visit from 10am to 2pm. You can always call the Gaffney House staff to be sure he's there 206-838-1920 if you plan to visit.