My Father’s Eyes

My Dad died when he was 90 years old.  It was a bittersweet time.  My father and I had a very turbulent relationship for most of our years together.  He was an alcoholic, and abusive–mentally and physically.  Thankfully, our story was yet to have a happy ending. A true mercy.

Olan Webb, my father, was from the little Alabama town of Nauvoo, in Walker County.  Is a tough area, kind of a little slice of Appalachia transplanted into the red dirt of Alabama. I enjoyed hearing Dad’s stories about his growing up in that southern coal-mining town which, at one time, was booming, with trains arriving on a spur line for loading and to haul coal out to bigger hubs for distribution.  For most inhabitants, it was often a hard, dirty, subsistence life, with few joys other than scrapping, drinking, sex, and an occasional picture-show at the small local theater.

Alabama, being in the “Bible Belt,” church was often in the picture.  For some it was a tradition, for some it was a transformative experience.  For many children, growing up in the rural South, there could be a premature baptism into the harsh realities of “adult” life, leaving childhood naivete maimed in the sooty dirt. I won’t go into the details of decadence just now, but suffice it to say that the “growing up” was difficult, especially with four testosterone-charged male siblings and two little sisters in a small two-room house–a shack, really.

Interwoven with the darker threads of Dad’s life, he possessed shiny strands of an incredible sense of humor.  He could be so outrageously funny–possessing a comedic timing that could be devastating.  That was my absolute favorite memory of my father, until eclipsed later on.  That was, to some degree, a lighter consolation for the painful parts.  He left me that inheritance of humor which became for me–as I suspect it was for him–both a gift and a coping skill.

Many years later, as a middle-aged adult, I remember visiting my father at the family cabin in Pinetop, Arizona.  He and my mother were separated: she having slipped into intractable, severe mental illness, and Dad showing the early indications of dementia.  I don’t remember much about that visit, except that I saw a small school photograph of him on an end-table, taken at around the age of ten or eleven.  What struck me most about the picture was his eyes: sad, overcast eyes, despite the obligatory school-photo smile.  Pained.

Even without the stories about his upbringing, I could sense that those eyes had seen things that no child should’ve seen. And he was made a participant in those things, sometimes willingly, other times not.  His innocence destroyed, he lost a child’s wonder at the world around him.  He was robbed of joy.  This painful history was not unique in the family.

But I did know many of the stories.  Not only the fun, nostalgic ones, but the painful, bent, and abusive ones–many I wish I did not know.  When I was a teenager, his drunken episodes frequently became a confessional, with me a trapped, terrified confessor.  He frequently cried out “Why?” with tears.  I was at a loss to comfort him.  I was too scared to draw attention to myself.

Likewise, growing up, I had inherited many of the same painful, bent and abusive experiences as my Dad…many at his own hands.  Having seen his eyes in that little photograph, I saw the same pain that entangled me for much of my life.  I saw how he suffered before I did.  I saw that he had loved me, but with the same damaged love he had known.  Given the way he was prepared for life, I saw that he did–albeit poorly–his best.

Fast forward.  In his last years, he suffered increasing dementia, and, as a result he lost some of his own independence.  He could no longer drive.  He was restricted from drinking, except for an occasional beer at special times.  What was a hard thing for him, was an undisguised blessing for us as a family.  He was sometimes still volatile in temper, and he could still wound (flesh is always flesh), but compared to before, the non-drinking Dad was a new Dad.

The dementia increased as his stamina and independence waned.  He had frequent falls.  His second wife, also his caretaker, had herself  developed serious age-related health problems.  The time came when her children told me that she could no longer care for him; they were taking her to Washington to be close to them.  I was already Dad’s trustee; so now I also became his guardian.

So, in 2016, after a gut-wrenching final good-bye between him and his wife, I took Dad to Southern Arizona and she went to Washington to be cared for by her kids.  There were a few phone calls and Facetimes.  They were never to see one another again.  She died a few months later. 

 Because of Dad’s dementia and incontinence, I had to place him in a very nice supervised-care facility.  He was very content there.  (Dementia can be a sad blessing in some respects.)  While Dad was in that facility, I visited him most days.  One common thread was he loved to talk about the early days in Nauvoo–the happier memories.  Since his long-term memory was fairly intact, he got that history mostly straight. 

One thing he always said at those times was, “You know, I’d really like to take a trip back there.”  I would humor him in that, saying I’d have to look into that idea.  Truth was, with both kinds of incontinence, wearing adult pull-ups, coupled with the dementia, I knew that possibility was out of the question.  Plus I was still in practice and couldn’t get away very long from the office.  I was truly saddened by his strong desire, but it was more than I could have handled.  Arizona to Alabama is a long, taxing trip, even if you’re healthy and can fly.  

Two years later, my wife and I moved to Prescott in northern Arizona, bringing Dad with us.  We found a lovely, small care facility operated by a Christian lady from Romania.  Sadly, uprooting and relocating an elderly dementia patient–which was unavoidable–can trigger enhanced agitation and accelerated dementia.  That, coupled with a urinary tract infection which can produce bizarre behavior as well–caused my dad to go ballistic and landed him in the hospital.  It was during that stay that he was evaluated for hospice care, which was approved.

Hospice was an incredible gift to us and him.  Back at the care home, his level and frequency of medical care increased; his comfort was greatly enhanced.  Plus they provided a great chaplain who faithfully visited with and ministered to Dad, along with Anita, the care-home owner.  They both poured into his life and especially were confessors/absolvers to Dad as he wrestled with the old, painful darkness which had tormented him for decades, causing him to fear meeting the Lord.  This included the things that were done to him, as well as how he, in turn, had hurt others.

That marked an incredible transformation in Dad.  His medical condition declined rapidly.  His ability to talk and his alertness diminished.  Yet at the same time his face, his demeanor, his spirit–his eyes–were so different!  When roused for visitors, he would smile, attempt to talk, sometimes managing a few hoarse words.  His eyes, however expressed love and joy, whether he could verbalize it or not.  It was so obvious that the ministry to him had opened “old closets” and cleaned them out.  He looked free.

Since he seemed pretty stable, I had to go out of town for an overnight to handle some dental needs in our former home city.  Shortly before I had left, I had applied to have dad transferred to the local VA hospital’s hospice care unit, which had a stellar reputation for their care.  I found out that, if qualified, the VA hospice care would be free to him as a U.S. veteran. 

I was on my way home, and was notified by phone that he had aspirated some food while eating, and had the symptoms of “aspiration pneumonia”–an ominous diagnosis in his condition.  I was still about an hour from home when I got another call from the VA that he had been approved for the VA Hospice unit and they were arranging to pick him up right away.  So, racing up the mountains between Phoenix and Prescott, I managed to make it just before the transfer team arrived. 

Dad was checked into the unit and from the moment I walked in, I felt God’s hand of blessing on us.  The staff were all amazing in their compassionate care.  It was a labor of love.  It was a restful place for Dad to spend his last days.  And clearly those were his last days.  He could not communicate verbally, but he was very visually connected.  I spent time talking with him, reading the scriptures, praying for him and singing to him.  His eyes reflected gratitude and love, and he seemed totally at peace.

Three days after his admission, two of my grandsons, his great-grandsons, visited “Granddaddy,” along with Shelley and I.  His dentures were out due to his shrunken mouth.  We had told them that Dad was going to heaven soon.  The younger said, “When Granddaddy gets to heaven, I hope God gives him some new teeth.”  We all laughed, and I assured him that God surely would do that.  The boys were antsy after a little while, so we decided to take them to Watson lake for some rock-climbing diversion.  I held Dad’s hand and told him we would be back in a little while.  His eyes were closed due to heavy medication, but he squeezed my  hand.

Watson was gorgeous, surrounded by granite cliffs, called the Dells.  It was sunset and the rocks looked aflame.  Soon we returned to our car to head back to the hospital.  As soon as we got in the car the phone rang.  The nurse told me that Dad was gone.  My father’s eyes closed for the last time.

Epilogue.   A few months later my sister and I were discussing Dad and the miracle in his life.  “It’s ironic,” I said. “God gave us a sweet father in the end!”  The fear and pain of the majority of our years together was sanctified by the miracle of God seen in my father’s eyes. 

In August, 2021, I got to fulfill Dad’s wish.  My sister and I had a small reunion with remaining Webb family members in Nauvoo.  This was a time to share, break bread, and memorialize him.  Since he’d been cremated, I took a small portion of his ashes and sprinkled them under some rose bushes at a small veteran’s memorial in Nauvoo.  We told tales and I shared my father’s  miracle with them.  It was a special time.  And Dad got to go “home.”

Rest in peace, Dad.  And enjoy those new teeth.