Oh, Danny Boy

by Jaden Terrell

In 2004, my father-in-law, Dan Hicks, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. It's a disease sometimes called "the long, slow goodbye." It's a thief, and a cruel one at that, stealing memories, independence, and even the ability to carry on a conversation. It makes children of grown men and women, turns spouses and children into caretakers. What it cannot do is vanquish love.

Dan was a quiet man. It's a trait shared by both his sons, who bide their time until exactly the right moment, then say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. None of them have ever been much for small talk.

Case in point: Mike and I were once in a grocery store buying chips and soda for a get-together at our house. The man behind us said to Mike, "Are you guys having a party?"

There was a long silence. I smiled at the man and looked at Mike, not wanting to be one of those pushy wives who answer for their spouses. More silence. The man shifted uncomfortably, gave me an embarrassed smile. Finally, I answered the question and we had a brief conversation. As Mike and I were walking back to our car, I said, "What do you do when I'm not here?"

He said, "What do you mean?"

"That man. He asked you if you were having a party."

"Oh that." He shrugged. "He didn't really want to know."

Over the years, Thelma, my sister-in-law Nikki, and I would shake our heads over it. "Those Hicks men," we would say, and laugh. They were three of a kind: men of few words, but also strong men of dignity and kindness. Men who would come out in a thunderstorm to fix your flat tire, who dropped you off at the door when the weather was bad, even though they knew you wouldn't melt and wouldn't have minded walking across the parking lot in the rain.

Dan's quietness helped him cover for his diminishing intellect. Those first few years, he could follow a conversation fairly well, inserting an occasional apt comment, even making the occasional joke. As the disease progressed, his jokes became simpler.

"How are you?" I would ask.

"Still here," he would say, with his old smile. It was an answer with layers of meaning. Still here. Still alive. Still me.

A few years ago, Thelma bought him a powderpuff Chinese Crested puppy. Dan fell in love with the pup and named it after himself and after his favorite song: Danny Boy. The family had begin a tradition of meeting weekly at a nearby Sir Pizza, and Dan would fret, "Do you think my little puppy is going be all right? . . . We'd better get back home and take care of my little puppy."

Always a man of few words, those words became fewer and fewer. Still, he would reach across and straighten Thelma's collar or pluck at a stray thread. Those Hicks men. Always taking care of the ones they love. Even when he could not remember her name, he remembered her.

She kept him at home and cared for him as he became less and less her partner and more and more her child. His daughter, Rene, says it was Dan's gentle nature that made that possible. Yes, he was stubborn (those Hicks men!), but his easygoing nature made him easier to care for. But I also think his love for Thelma carried him. She was his anchor and his lifeline. When he didn't remember himself, he remembered her.

It was hard to watch him slip away. It was just as hard to watch Thelma lose her best friend and life mate, little by little and inch by inch. When they married, she was sixteen and he was nineteen. Her older sister, Lucille, signed the papers allowing her to marry, and for fifty-three years, they loved each other. Raised three children. Loved four grandchildren. Welcomed their children's spouses as if we were their own.

At 2 AM on December 16, just four days before his 73rd birthday, Dan passed away. His daughter, Rene, gave the eulogy. It was a brave and loving thing to do, and I admire her for it. She painted a picture of a loving father who taught his children to swim and to love roller coasters, whose quiet humor blessed their lives, whose pride in his service in the Marine Corps inspired one son and whose love of hiking and photography inspired another.

I once read a quote in a Jewish prayer book. It said that every act of kindness contributes to the goodness in the world and that these acts of kindness live on forever, long after those who committed them are gone. It was about acts of goodness done by common men and women, whose names will never be in history books but whose lives touch other lives like ripples in a pond.

Dan Hicks, you made the world a better place. And now...the pipes, the pipes are calling.

You will be missed.

Learning to Read Again

By Mark W. Danielson

While age may take its toll on comprehension and retention, advances in technology have minimized our thinking to the point that our brain is rarely challenged. Calculators are used in math classes, computers tell us when our tires and engine fluids are low, sensors turn on our lights -- we don’t even need to dial phone numbers anymore. Just talk and it dials for you. I can’t speak for everyone, but when my brain lacks exercise, it forgets things. A recent flight with my buddy Dan reminded me of that.

For decades, I regularly flew light airplanes, but I sold my bi-plane in 1985 and then stopped renting planes after 9-11 temporarily grounded the fleet. As much as I miss low and slow flying, other obligations have made it more difficult to stay current. So when Dan wanted to take me flying in his aerobatic airplane for my birthday, I was elated. However, when he handed me a local area chart shown above that depicts all of the airspace restrictions, I realized the airliner’s moving map display (also shown above) had reduced my ability to perform basic skills that I spent years training others to do. Then again, how much exercise can my brain get from an electronic display that tells me where I am, where I’m going, where other traffic is, and what the terrain and weather is like? Not that I’m complaining because I’ve grown quite fond of this technology – but when Dan handed me this chart, my brain reacted as though it had never seen one before. This revelation was rather disconcerting considering I am still a licensed flight instructor and just renewed my certificate last spring.

Dan’s single engine plane requires that we fly by visual references, and since we took off from an uncontrolled airport, we never once spoke to an air traffic controller. The rejuvenating feeling from this type of flying is magnificent and it didn’t take long to feel comfortable. Navigating by mountain peaks, highways, and lakes is much more stimulating than following an electronic magenta line. I look forward to the day when I can acquire another light airplane so I can navigate off the charts I will have downloaded onto my iPad. Hey – once you’ve experienced technology, it’s hard to go back.

While our flight was absolutely exhilarating, recurring thoughts about how I struggled with this chart reminded me of how important it is to challenge my brain. I don’t like the feeling that I’m learning to read all over again, and I was fortunate that things came back so quickly. I can only imagine how frustrating it must be for those less fortunate as they try to recall things they once knew but can’t seem to find. My experience gave me a better appreciation for those who struggle in their later years. While I once believed that crafting stories was enough to keep my brain active, it’s clear that I must expand its stimulus. Reading fiction and non-fiction helps, as do crossword puzzles and Sudoku. Thinking while walking the dog exercises the brain as well as the body, and the dog is always willing to assist.

Of course, there is no way to predict what my mental or physical health will be in the future. Alzheimer’s seems to strike people as randomly as lightning. But doctors are certain that those who mentally and physically exercise will retain their capacities longer than those who sit in rocking chairs watching the world go by. Dan, I thank you not only for the flight, but also this lesson in life. I have learned to read again, and I’ll be brushing up on “old school” flying before age takes another bite out of my brain. I’ll also keep writing for as long as I’m able to do so.