Interment

Today was the day of interment for Haven H. Freeman. Since his death, his body has been at Lucas Eaton Funeral Home in York, Maine. On February 5, 2013, the day he passed away the ground was frozen with a few feet of snow more or less. It was decided we would wait for better weather to put his body in it's final resting place.

My father was a veteran of the Korean War. The funeral director, Steve Martin asked if we would like military funeral honors. Since my Dad was very proud of his service we thought he would like this. We agreed.

When I arrived at the family cemetery today, the coffin was already in place and a U.S. flag was draped over it. There were two U.S. Army soldiers waiting as well as the funeral director and Pastor Don Nelson from the Cape Neddick Baptist Church. For family members there was my sister and myself. We had invited my Dad's last surviving brother who was pre disposed with family matters of his own.

Pastor Nelson read a few excerpts from the bible and said a beautiful prayer. Next one soldier stood north of the grave site with a bugle. He played a very solemn version of taps. Another soldier stood at my Dad's grave, saluting.

I knew my Dad would have been very proud. It was a beautiful spring day, the birds were alive with robust conversation which coalesced with the tones of the bugle into a mesmerizing harmony. As the bugle ended the soldiers joined on the grave, one at the head of the coffin, the other at the foot and they began folding the flag.

They worked together meticulously and methodically. When they finished they walked out of the plot to where my sister and I stood. The soldier with the flag reached out with the flag. My sister insisted I accept it. I insisted she accept it. She further insisted and without further contest I reached out and accepted the flag.

The soldier looked into my eyes and very solomnly said, "On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army and a grateful Nation please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service." I was very touched by the sincerity in which these words were spoken, by such a young soldier, not unlike my Dad, 60 years ago. As I looked into his eyes I could see my Dad as a young man, a young soldier at the beginning of his life.

There was something very moving about this aspect of the ceremony which I had not expected. The two soldiers conveyed a deep feeling of patriotism and self respect for their task. It was very powerful and somehow penetrated to the core of my conscience. I was very moved and realized how significant my Dad's duty had been to these young men, so many other like them and to our country. 

My sister and I watched as my Dad, inside his casket, was lowered into the hole in the ground, into a cement liner. It is all so unbelievable. My Dad gone now in the flesh. He has moved on. The skills of my learning which he enhanced can never be again. His pride for me can only be recalled in my memory. Never again will I hear him say, "I love you, Kev."

April 18, 2013

Bursts of Brain Activity May Protect Against Alzheimer's Disease

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/04/130418125742.htm

April 10, 2013

I went up to my Dad's house today. He has been gone since February 5. His grave has been dug and lined. His body is at the funeral home. Soon he will be placed in the ground next to my aunt Evelyn, next to their grandparents, Anna and Albert. But today the grave is open and waiting until my sister, the funeral director, the minister and myself can find a common date to meet and bury my father.

Somehow, I found myself at my Dad's house, after a short drive, looking for a place to sketch. I went into his barn which had been picked through by many others in a yard sale sort of way. Drawers were pulled out, contents jumbled, things turned over, left, abandoned, due to no perceived value. The entire place looked violated.

All the stuff my Dad had coveted had been rifled through with no regard to him, his lust for collecting or consideration of organization. It was a feeling I was not familiar with. My sister had many yard sales here, in the sanctity of a building my father built with his own hands to carefully collect and preserve his most precious tangibles. People had tested his skills, his eye for something valuable by sauntering in and rummaging through everything he had accumulated in a manner that was quick concise and lacking respect.

No doubt my Dad accumulated all of the stuff he had in a likewise fashion. He bartered at estate and yard sales, always hoping for a deal. As I perused through the moderate mayhem I came across one of the items I recall from early childhood. It was my Dad's gray toolbox among a pile of stuff, on the floor.

Ever since I can remember he had this tool box. Before the yard sales began I had put a tag on the box with the letter "K" on it. This signified my name. The box was so worn out I couldn't imagine using it myself but didn't want it sold. I was hoping it would remain intact in perpetuity, I guess.

Today the box was nearly empty of all the tools I remembered. All the tools as a child I would hold and wonder what they were for had escaped the box and it's characteristic grayness. As I grew older my Dad taught me how to use the tools which were now gone. Not long ago they were mine for the taking. I declined and now they are elsewhere. The waterpump pliers, the crescent wrench, the open ended wrenches and black handled screwdrivers, among others, all overflowing, held down by a tray on top that was also missing were gone. The box had been ravaged. The old gray box was nearly empty, save for a few tools I did not recognize.

I missed all the tools as I stared into the box. My mind flashed to all the places I had seen the box in my life. The cellar and garage of my childhood home, underneath and in the trunk of our family car, on the old jitterbug, in my Dad's home on his kitchen floor and now in his barn, empty.

I paused, stood up and looked around at the mess all around me. Unprepared

My Dad's Funeral, Like His Life, is Now Past

My Dad's funeral, like his life, is now past.

My Dad will become memories, photos and over time, less and less significant. His body will decay into the earth from which it came and the cycle of life shall begin anew.

My Dad had been a member of the Cape Neddick Baptist Church since 1950. Because he made me, I went to Sunday school, Bible school, church, Cape Cadets and often Thursday night services at the church. Sometimes, Sunday night as well, though my parents would often pardon me from Sunday night attendance.

I became disenfranchised with the church when a lady who had gotten a divorce was kicked out. At the same time two members were flirting with no shame a few pews in front of where we sat. They happened to be married, not to each other.

Being about 15 years, I was old enough to realize the hypocrisy and stopped attending. I became disenfranchised with organized religion but fascinated with understanding them. I felt more comfortable developing my own spirituality than succumbing to organized dogmas whose primary purpose is to raise money.

My Dad kept attending and eventually wondered off, as well. He tried other churches in the area. He helped them financially and enjoyed the change. Eventually he came back to the Cape Neddick Baptist Church. I think it was because of Rev. Stone, whom he developed an admiration for. His church of choice ultimately became the Cape Neddick Baptist Church. It is where he began and ended his religious pursuits.

Cape Neddick Baptist Church

The Cape Neddick Baptist Church was the only option for a place to have the funeral. Going back into the church was nostalgic for me. Almost nothing had changed. I haven't been in the church for nearly 35 years.  A good part of my childhood was developed there. My struggles with Christianity, mortality and references from the bible I learned there and reflect upon almost daily.

I arrived at the church about an hour before the funeral. There were many woman busy in the kitchen off the vestry. Just like I remember. They were preparing food for after the service. They were all so helpful. They were just like the generation of women who preceded them, except they were the daughters. They have now grown older and look more like their moms who I remember so well. They were very helpful and it was comforting to be there.

I set up my laptop on a small stand near the food table and started a slideshow of photos of my Dad. My friends Scott and Frank showed up and we went up stairs to practice a song that we would soon be singing; “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” My friend Mark and his partner Brenda, who is my first cousin once removed, also arrived. They had brought guitars as well and would sing, “I'll Fly Away” and “On the Wings of a Dove.”

Pastor Don Nelson led the ceremony and did a wonderful job, I thought. I am very grateful to him. He worked with my sister and I on details and everything went according to plan, except I didn't plan on crying so much.

The opening song was "On an Old Rugged Cross." Waves of memories overcame me, standing there next to my wife who 40 years ago would have been my Dad. I could hear him singing in my mind so clearly. A wave of emotion flushed over me and I couldn't help myself from crying beyond control.

After prayers people were asked to come up and speak about my Dad if they would like. My sister was first. She was very upset as I felt. She was able to get through a paper she had prepared. Next was my Dad's second wife Rita. She read some Scriptures and then Alva Hilton came up. He was a friend of my Dad's from as far back as I can remember. And finally I stood up and went up to the podium. I had prepared my words a few days before. This is what I read...

Thank You all for Coming today

I have the best Dad,

Growing up, after dinner my Dad and I often drove to remote fields with a spotlight at night. He would flash the headlights of the car across the field and when we saw brightly illuminated eyes I would point the immensely powerful spotlight at the frozen statues we called deer, finally they would run off, into the forest. We derived so much satisfaction from counting the deer and wondering what field might next be better. 

We whistled On the Old Rugged Cross and Oh When the Saints in a perfect unison as we drove back home. I watched the road pass before me over the dashboard and remember being so happy sitting next to my Dad. 

Sometimes he would bring home twinkles in his lunch box after work for Karen and I. Rushing to his lunch box I wondered where they came from. I tried to imagine his world at work where he spoke of playing cards, pining away the time while the parts he made for submarines were being inspected. 

We fished with hand lines off Sewall's bridge. Once or twice for cod and haddock on Uncle Bud's boat way out in the ocean, so far out there was no land to be seen. And to calm my anxiety about the taller than the boat waves he told me it was a big boat and it would be very unlikely anything would happen to us. I was so happy to get back to shore.

He helped me learn to ride my bike on Logging Road before there was asphalt. I dared not fall onto the sharp rocks, he dare not let me. 

Before I was a teenager I remember crying at night, worrying. I somehow had this notion that he would die. I couldn't stand it. He would say my prayers with me and then when he turned the lights out and left my bedroom I would cry and be so afraid. I had no idea he would live to be 84 when he was 40. 

He became the coach of my baseball team so I could play. I wasn't so good. Actually I was terrified when he made me the pitcher and a kid named Smitty drove a line drive at me. I held my glove in front of my face because there wasn't time to run away. Miraculously I caught the ball. There was a roaring applause. 

My Dad made me clean out the pony barn and cut firewood. He didn't tell me then that woodcutting would be something, like him, I would learn to love. But later in life we often went into the woods together on his home made tractor getting stuck in the mud. He took special pride in falling a tree on a stick placed on the ground as a target. 

I spent many hours here, in this church as a child. In the pews, in the classrooms learning about eternity and that we are not perfect. I was terribly afraid to not be "saved" before I die. I learned how complicated Christianity could be for a child. And how God sent his son so we could have eternal life. 

My Dad always re enforced these concepts at home. He taught me to pray and especially for others. Finally, I understood how simple believing was and that praying was just talking to God, anytime, anyplace. More than anyone else, my Dad instilled this in me.

Throughout my life he would witness to me. We had many debates about pre-destiny versus If we have choices. I happily argued on either side, he believed mostly in pre-destiny. 

As my Dad grew older his faith grew. He was happy to talk about it with anyone. He would engage strangers as well as friends. He had something to share that was true and genuine. You could feel it, you knew it. 

A new chapter of life began at Sentry Hill for my Dad, Karen and I. Alzheimer's is scary. Initially, I thought such a diagnoses meant loosing my Dad for sure. His memory did slowly erode. But his love always shined. He had a wonderful smile up until the end. Even when he could barely talk he could still smile. 

He was so fortunate to have the loving support of my sister, Karen. Her dedication to my Dad is a reflection of his caring and teaching by example. The nurses and staff at Sentry Hill who took care of my Dad around the clock are amazing, I am astounded by their caring, their patience and heartfelt compassion. It is a blessing to know there are so many wonderful people amongst us. I am so grateful that my Dad had the benefit of their care.

As I visited my Dad I noticed that the other residents who also had Alzheimer's were rich with personality. In so many people who were suffering it was apparent there were also many bright moments. These people are all at different stages of a devastating disease and all immensely human. It didn't take long for me to realize they are beautiful, they are God's children. 

I remember my Dad's favorite quote at one time was "Don't get old." Ironically he did. And in spite of his affliction he was able to love his family in a way that was profound. In a way that you knew that he would do anything in the world for you - until the very end. 

I am very proud of my Dad. I am very grateful that he loved me-no question. I am also very fortunate to know that he is with God. He is with a God that he believed in with all his heart and soul. 

I Love You Dad

Obituary

Haven Freeman's Obituary

February 7, 2013

Two days after my Dad passed I arranged with the funeral director to meet the grave digger where my Dad is to be buried. My Dad made plans to be buried in a family plot on property he once owned. When he sold the property he made provisions to have access to the cemetery for his own burial. He showed me exactly where he wanted to rest.

I drove up the road for a 3:30 appointment a little early. I planned on stopping dropping in on the property owner to inform her of my Dad's death and let her know our intentions of burying him. As I walked up to her door there was lots of noise, machinery off in the woods near the gravesite. She saw me approach through the window and opened the door. She was very nice and told me she expected this to happen and offered her condolences. I was very curious but it didn't occur to me what could possibly be the source of the noise.

I left the property owner and drove around to the other side of her property where there was a path to ingress the cemetery. There were people in the woods and two trucks in the pathway. I got out of the car and saw two men on the graves. One had a jackhammer and was standing directly on top of my Aunt Evelyn's grave. His jack hammer was blaring away in shrieking harmony with a generator nearby. Downward plunging, a violation of what I knew to be sacred. The other grave digger was on top of my great grandfather with a hand ogger screwing it into the ground. It was a very disturbing site (no pun intended).

They saw me and paused. One came forward and stretched his legs over the steel piped perimeter. He said they didn't know where to put my father and were looking to see where the others were buried. I was shocked that they were so intrusive, especially since my fathers intentions were to be buried outside the cemetery. They explained that they had come buy earlier in the year when we made arrangements for my Dad's funeral at the direction of the funeral director to look at the site. At that time an abutter told them they could not expand the graveyard. He added that it would be ok if they stayed within perimeter.

I wasted no time in calling the abutter who said he didn't say that. He told me he talked to these people 5 years ago with my Dad. He told them there was no issue as long as we were on the right side of the property lines.

I keep recalling the scene, two men upon the graves of my aunt and great grandfather, violating the sacred sanction of being placed at rest.

This is my Dad in the cemetery standing on the spot where he will be laid to rest soon.

February 6, 2013

"Goodnight Dad, I will see you in the morning," I whispered into my Dad's ear as I left him last night.

Yesterday was long. My sister and I stayed with him as long as we could. Our thoughts seemed to be one. We wanted him to feel ok to go. He was breathing heavy at times and other times as gentle as a baby. He laid on his bed, making not a move. Less facial twitches than before. His eyes open slightly at times, maybe looking out, maybe just too tired to close them.

My sister was going away for a week, leaving him with me, the staff and the hospice workers. It broke my heart to know she wouldn't be there for him when he passed. She explained that this was a once a year vacation and she had to go. Earlier in the day and in preparation of her absence we created a recording of her talking and singing amazing grace, his favorite hymn. I read 23 Psalms and she closed with a heartfelt encouragement for him to move on to the next world as god and his family were waiting when he was ready. 

In the early afternoon we realized he may no be ready to leave because of the company we were keeping with him. Joined by my stepmother, Rita, we sang him lots and lots of his favorite hymns as he lay motionless except for deep arduous breathing. We expected he enjoyed our efforts and could not possibly feel alone. We were visited by many hospice people and a few suggested though his signs looked as he may slip away at anytime some people won't go when others are present. I suggested to my sister that I leave when she left as she needed to do some errands. We told my Dad we were leaving and would be back in about an hour. We very much wished he would feel comfortable about slipping away if it were his time. After leaving and upon my return he was still a mortal. I commenced to burn the recording we made earlier onto a CD. I put the CD into the boom box on his dresser and checked to see if it worked; it did.

There is nothing that compares to watching a life end. It is beautiful and terrifying at the same time. When I watched him gasping for air I wondered how I will do if I get this far. And I realized the joy he brought to his parents when he came into this world. They brought him in and now we were helping him out. It was a privilege without compare. I love my Dad and took great comfort in knowing how much he loved me and my sister at this epic moment in his life. 

It wasn't clear if my Dad was getting closer to passing as we moved into early evening. It was clear that his breathing was becoming accompanied by a rattle which was unnerving. We asked for more meds for the congestion and an increases dose of morphine. They upped his morphine from .5 mil to 1 mil. The rattling in his throat somewhat subsided and we thought the morphine may help calm him down as we prepared to leave. My sister and I both realized it would be the last time all three of us would be together in this world. As we made our way out we stopped by the nurses station and informed the staff my sister would be leaving for vacation but we have made a CD for them to play with our voices so that he would hear especially my sister's voice and reassuring message. They responded enthusiastically to the idea. My sister and I parted ways after a long day, a long week and a long experience with Alzheimer's Disease. About an hour after I arrived at home my phone rang, it was a nurse from Sentry Hill, her name was Shannon. She told me my Dad had passed. I called my sister immediately to confirm. She had driven back, yes she told me, he is gone. She added the staff said they had played the CD for my Dad and when he passed, she said, "that son of a gun was humming along." It was amazing to me he found the energy to hum. In fact I am in awe. He was so without energy, so helpless when we left him. 

Last night I slept a little but was very distracted. You see, I have never had a Dad die before. I had thought about it and what it would feel like many times. But last night it was real. Strangely, mostly what I felt was relief, not sadness. 

This morning I went over to Sentry Hill to pick up my iphone charger which I left behind last night. I felt OK until I got into my Dad's room. The bed in which he passed away on was right in front of me. His shoes right on the floor. His body had been taken to the funeral home sometime in the night. Everything was still there, just as I left him, except him. I took some photos off the wall and opened his closet. His clothes still hanging, many familiar shirts. The tears welled up and I just couldn't help crying and crying. I held the sleeve of a shirt as though he were in it. I knew I couldn't hold on but tried. I carried a few things out to the car. Started to drive away but was interrupted with heavy emotional outbursts. My face was contorted to the point of feeling embarrassed. As I collected my thoughts and feelings I could sense my Father everywhere. Suddenly, I realized the tears were becoming joyful. I looked out through the windshield and into the cold winter sky and tree line. My Dad was everywhere as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

I drove away from Sentry Hill and recalled the last words I said to my Dad, "I will see you in the morning."

February 3, 2013

My Dad was peaceful today. Today wasn't so sad. My Dad did not open his eyes for the 5 hours I visited. His breathing was regular, gentle and untroubled. A hospice worker came into his room and asked about my Dad's life. I told her the details that most appealed to me in a few minutes...it seemed too short. I could have gone on but told her about memories I had of him instead. She asked questions and offered suggestions. I realized I was at peace, feeling OK to let go. I wasn't troubled, I am OK to let go.

My instinct is to try to save him. But his body is to exhausted to respond. He cannot swallow. He cannot take fluids. He was given some morphine earlier as he displayed discomfort when he was rolled to his alternate side.

February 3. 2013

My Dad has stopped eating and drinking. He has had very little for 3 days. I would like to think he will resume anytime but don't feel it is likely. Last night I played him some songs on my guitar and sang Amazing Grace, which he used to enjoy. He lay in his bed, motionless, except for breathing and an occasional twitch of his facial muscles. I didn't mind crying.

I prayed for his soul. He always talked about Jesus and how we would be going home someday. He believed this with all his heart. I prayed that God take him home as easy as possible. I imagined him with his Dad, Mother and Siblings in a bright sunny place all in their prime of life, I guess this is what I consider heaven to be.

Hundreds of memories flashed through my head as if in a movie projector  All of the good times I had with my Dad reeled in fast motion, as he lay there exhausted, unable to help himself stay in this world. Loosing a Dad is not something you can practice. For me it is a once in a lifetime event that I would rather avoid. I would love to take my Dad by the hand and bring him back to his house on North Village Road. Have a snowball fight. Cut some wood. Take a ride. Selfishly, I wish he didn't have to go...but I pray, when he does it is peaceful and as normal as his breathing was last night.

January 30, 2013

It is very strange. Life. All the things I have been protected from. All the places I don't want to go.

My Dad is now having difficulty swallowing. He has fallen many times. Been to the emergency room for undiagnosed reasons. 2 visits ago was the saddest ever. I was so sad. Today I could make my Dad laugh. He had a big, beautiful grin without his teeth in. I always thought his perfect looking false teeth coaxed the ladies into calling him handsome. But I have been wrong. His smile was perfect today and the aids kept walking by saying, "Hi, handsome Haven," with no teeth, mind you!

Today he could look into my eyes and he knew me...the way I know myself. A CNA smooshed up a banana and tried to feed it to him. I held up a glass of ginger ale and directed the straw into his mouth. Sometimes he could manage and sometimes nothing happened.

He reached for the table. He mumbled something and I replied. No words were exchanged. The aids and CNA floated around the 10 or so residents like angels. Providing comfort and care, a few kind words, compliments. My Dad in a wheelchair still reaching for the table as though he could use it to pull himself up. He said. "look." I offered him more ginger ale and he readily said, "really." This time he gulped it. I smiled, he smiled. Somehow amongst the sadness I realized I was happy at this moment.

The residents blended in with their elderly children. Some, I knew not if they were residents or relatives. They looked mostly the same and some were very beautiful people...sitting, elegant, refined, their nurons tangled beneath their skulls. Everyone who was sitting at one table looked the same. My Dad doesn't walk now. He sits, mostly in front of a table in a wheelchair.

Yesterday he did not eat and slept all day Jenn told me. I don't want my life to end like my Dad's is. This experience is surreal. I don't know how to make it logical. I am just sad. Even though my Dad was smiling when I left him today I am sad about it. Someplace deep inside me I am crying, heartbroken though there are no tears rolling down my cheeks. You cannot see them but they are rolling down my heart.

I fed my Dad for the first time today. Jenn, a CNA, brought some blueberry and chocolate ice cream into his room. She handed the bowl to me and said, "I thought you may be able to get him to eat this." I  have never spoon fed an adult until today. He was receptive and ate almost have the bowl. He then wanted to get up. I went looking for Jenn to tell her while at the same time I was wondering why he would want to get up. Where did he think he would go?

As I got ready to go I put my hand on his shoulder and he jumped. I told him I loved him and was leaving. I kissed him on the top of his white crop of hair and walked off. He mumbled something and I turned back approaching him from the other side. I returned the mumbled and he quickly turned his head looking my strait in the face. We both grinned at the same time. For an instance things were perfect. I grasped it tight and will hold on to that grin, smiling.

New Years Day 2013

Reflecting back this has been a very strange year. The dynamics of my family have evolved into a spiral that is out of control, twisting and turning in all directions at once. Through it all my Dad is coupled with his dementia. He sits and sits and sits among others whose conditions are so much the same that it seems completely normal to be among them. Persons sitting in chairs, staring off into the distance. Their heads moving slowly through time. Occasionally making eye contact, occasionally I avoid making eye contact in an attempt to thwart any advancement toward me.

If they look too long they may see me as a familiar face, someone they can appeal to for help, someone who can help them escape through the locked doors. I cannot be that person for them. I do have the passcode memorized, but not for them. It is for me. So I can type in 1996 and go, like a bird, free, into the wild. As I go, emotions flow over me like the ebb tide, gently I feel reluctant to leave, nostalgia and a sense of sadness all envelop me like a hug from an old friend. I shake my head as I pass the last door into the fresh air as if I am shaking off rain from a cold shower.

I get into the car and I think out loud, "I love you, Dad."

My Dad is sweet and kind and easy to coach a smile from. His image pops up in my mind as I start the car and drive away. I don't think I can any longer make memories for him. And I wonder where his memories have gone... dissipated, expelled from his brain, perhaps floating in the upper stratosphere  perhaps co mingled with my glass of orange juice this morning. There is no easy answer as my thoughts turn elsewhere and I drive back to the normalcy of the other reality, where I spend most of my time, my home, my work, exploring other mysteries, trying to catch them and existing in the awe.