"You know those days when you've got the mean reds?"
"Same as the blues?"
"No," she said slowly. "No, the blues are because you're getting fat or maybe its been raining too long. You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you are afraid of."
Breakfast at Tiffany's Truman Capote
A man is a two-face, a worrisome thing who'll- Johnny Mercer
Leave you to sing the blues in the night...
My Dad has been sick with Alzheimer's now for nearly 10 years. And during that time, certainly since he has progressed fully into the illness, I have not been able to remember him before. I tried and tried; on sleepless nights I have tried to recall some slight recollection of him but to no avail. All I see is his now blank vague expression, unable to recognize me, as much as I no longer recognize him. I presumed this was some kind of self-preservation thing, to help me cope with seeing him descend into this cruel and confusing decline. But something has happened, sort of an epiphany.
Today whilst helping my Mum clean out her closet we came upon an old attach case full of old papers. I found one of my Dads old passports from 1971; it smells of age and vaguely of him. And there he is, my Daddy, the man I remember or thought I could not, smiling back at me. It was astonishing at first, when I opened it the emotions rose up so suddenly, I was beaming with joy but there were tears to be choked back too. And my Mum let me keep it, so I've been looking at it all afternoon. I keep thinking maybe I should stop in case the effect wears off, but I have remembered something more.
"Never get mixed up with men"he would tell me (I am the youngest of his children) with a gleam in his eye, "Or you'll be singing the blues in the night" and off he would go, singing some old jazz standard that I never knew until today.
He was burning too brightly somehow, everyone wanted to know him but he remained unfathomed as much by himself as everyone else. He was engaging company; challenging and energetic with an enquiring mind and a wild unruly streak. He once was having a heated debate with a colleague on the phone. He was in Somerset and the man he was speaking with was in Manchester. The other guy hung up on him so my Dad jumped in his car, drove 3 and a half hours to Manchester, stormed past the mans secretary and barged into his office saying "Right. Lets finish the conversation." As difficult as I am, I've got nothing on him.
The strange thing about this new treasure, this simple black and white photo of my smiling Dad, is how it has brought my present into focus. Like a kaleidoscope, it has turned a messy, confusing mass of moving beads into a pattern, something tangible I can recognize and try to make sense of. In his eyes and smile I can see my youngest son, a force of nature, beaming back. I see myself too, somehow fearless and defiant now, just as he would have wanted.