In My Father's Shoes

I'm trying to remember to blink. I'm trying to remember to speak clearly. I am trying to remember to swallow carefully. Walk one foot in front of the other. Don't trip. I'm just so tired but I should stretch and exercise and not get mad. Steady now.

It is a marathon of conscious actions I have to remember now: 26 seconds to 26 minutes to 26 hours to 26 days to 26 months to 26 years. Will I last 26 years? My father lasted 23.

Blink, move, stretch, talk, swallow--carefully, precisely--constantly but I'm so tired already.

This is not bi-polar--Parkinson's is not a disease where I take a pill and pretend I don't have it. If I do--I lose. I lose precious seconds, minutes, hours, days --years.

Friday, I landed in my father's shoes--my tremor of 8 months-Parkinson's.

Blink, move, stretch, talk, swallow--carefully, precisely--constantly.

I'm trying to remember to breathe.

A Bollerud Story: The Visit

We communicated with our eyes. The last time I saw my dad, Parkinson's disease had taken everything from him except his eyes. He couldn't move, he could barely talk but he was all there. First thing he said to me was "You got fat." I laughed. "Yes, Dad, I guess I did."

He couldn't talk to us, his children as we sat around the table. My mom would flit in and out nervously "to smoke." She told me later, eventhough she was there every day to jerk a knot in the nurse's ass--it was never easy to see dad that way.

The eyes said everything. I smiled and they smiled back. I made a joke about dad going to "come to Jesus" meetings at chapel, and those eyes turned cold like they did when I was in trouble as a kid. When the nurse came in and called him "Hanky Panky" they rolled and endured--"Oh he loves it when I call him that." The eyes said, "No, I don't, you moron."

Since dad couldn't speak, I spoke for him. I told stories to make him laugh, like when he walking me down the aisle during my wedding, he was whispering under his breath, "Left, Right, Left, Right" Just like I was one of his recruits. His eyes got wide and he started laughing then coughing. And I stopped talking.

I could tell dad wanted to talk. He was a great storyteller. He would try but I couldn't hear anything come out. I gave him a pen and paper but he couldn't hold it to write. Then he slowly tried to trace letters on the table. We all stared at that finger slowly moving over and over. By that time, mercifully, my mom said it was time for dad to eat and we should leave. I hugged him but I couldn't make it out the door before I burst into tears.

I wondered, what did dad want to say to me? "I love you?" "I'm proud of you?" Later that week, I called mom and asked her. "Oh, it was something about Star Trek."

Happy Fathers Day Dad, hope they throw a nice one in the next world!

Hendrik S. Bollerud: A Good Soldier

One of my earliest memories of my father is him getting up every morning to "spit shine" his boots. He was a miltary man. The Army was his career, he chose it. Growing up, I never thought that much about him being an Army guy because every kid I knew had an army guy for a dad.

All I knew about what my Dad did was that he was a "Mess Sgt" and I only knew that because sometimes he would bring home huge boxes of variety pack cereal--Grape Nuts were my favorite.

When I was about eight or so my Dad traded his white hat for a "Smokey The Bear" hat, he became a Drill Instructor. I only found out recently just how difficult is to get into that training and pass it.

My Dad took that position very seriously. My Mom told me a story that once they were in an airport and Dad saw a soldier in uniform but he was a mess: shirt out, collar unbuttoned, tie askew.

Now, this man wasn't in Dad's unit and they were on civilian ground but it didn't matter to Dad. He walked right up to that soldier and told him to tuck in his shirt, button that collar and generally "police yourself up."

My Mom said that poor soldier turned scarlet, moved quickly to comply, all the while mumbling, "Yes, Drill Sgt. Yes, Sir." Now, it was not my Dad's nature to be an ass and abuse his rank, he just wanted this soldier know that the unform was just as important as the person wearing it.

After putting in his twenty years in the Army, my Dad kinda forgot what he was good at and became a salesman. Ten years, many jobs, and many 12 Steps later, he remembered again. He became a classroom nstructor at Sears Driving School. Nothing to sneeze to some but how many instructors get standing ovation? Dad did--he was just that good.

So life was good, Dad was happy, the future looked bright but then a heart attack came and the doctor told my Dad the reason why the wiggling in his toe wouldn't stop was because he had Parkinson's Disease. Probably because of his exposure to Agent Orange during his year in Vietnam.

"Luck of the draw," was all Dad said. I believe it was his military training, his A.A. and my Mom being a hard ass at making sure he got the best medical care that Dad lived 23 years with the disease.

I really didn't understand what my Dad's miltary career meant to him or to our government until Dad's funeral--it was a miltary funeral with full honors at Ft. Sam Houston. Now, he never served there but all my Mom had to do was make a phone call and as we sat grave side, the troops arrived.

All in their finest dress blues; the Flag-folding soldiers, the soldiers who saluted my Father with 21 rounds, the lone soldier in dress greens who represented my Father's service in Viet Nam and of course the soldier who played Taps so mournfully, I burst into tears.

I have to admit, I didn't cry because I missed my Dad, I cried because at that moment, I felt that maybe my Dad didn't have the life he wanted. But I was wrong, my father was proud to be a military man. It taught him well.

So eventhough, technically, Memorial Day is to honor soldiers who have fallen in war, I honor my Father for fighting his own private war with alcholism and then Parkinson's. Even after he couldn't move, speak, or swallow--he took the orders fate delivered him, marched on as best he could until the very end because that's what a good soldier does.

Hendrik S. Bollerud Born: November 21, 1933 Died: January 26, 2009

1967: A Bollerud Vacation

When my Dad married my Stepmom in 1967, we were the first Brady Bunch. He had four kids, she had two. We even had a maid. Of course this was Ft. Bliss, El Paso--anyone could get a maid for about a dollar a day, practically.

The first thing my parents did was realize the car situation wasn't going to work. My Mom's White 1965 Plymouth Fury III although had a cool name and great fins was too small. Likewise, my Dad's 1966 Black Batmobile Buick suddenly became obsolete for the same reason. And my Dad's beloved classic Edsel bought on a tipsy whim that he was going to fix it up was still on cinderblocks in the driveway. My strongest Brady Bunch memory was the summer of 1968 when Dad piled Mom, and us six kids in his new, first on the block, wood-paneled station wagon.

That station wagon made him feel like head wagon-master, now able to carry his brood cross-country. And so we set off to our first adventure west from El Paso to my Dad's family in Durham, California. Grandpa Bollerud said hello and not much else that I remember except "Good meal, Mother" which he said to his wife, Grandmother Bollerud who was nice enough but served us mushy summer squash--ick. The real fun started when we got to explore his farm: Playing with the shy barn kittens, feeding the pigs corn and sneaking to the farm next door to collect almonds from their orchard--eventhough we got in trouble for it.

Our next stop was Wisconsin to Great Aunt Irene's which, I don't remember how many days the whole trek took but I do remember it took three of them just to get across Texas. Three days of baloney sandwiches on Rainbo bread out of the ice cooler. Three days of "Are we out of Texas yet?" And of course three days of "DO I HAVE TO PULL OVER THIS CAR?" We ate at a restaurant once, my brother Peter threw up three times and my Mom dissevered if she left the back window down long enough us wild monkeys in the back got oddly quiet and slept for hours.

Great Aunt Irene's house was in Madison.--lots of green, lots and lots of cows. She was a grand old lady with a grand white Victorian house that sat right next door to an equally white and beautiful white steepled church. Her white linened dining room table sat twelve and had shiny, shiny silverware. We stopped in for breakfast as I recall: Rice Crispies with fresh raspberries. Mom and Dad both gave us their best scary stare relegated for such occasions so the six of us sat still, chewed with our mouth closed and marched in formation out the door better than the Van Trapp children even.

My Mom's parents were the crowning jewel of kid fun. They lived in Canton, Ohio. Sure their well-water smelled like rotten eggs, but if you held your nose you could still taste the lime Koolaide. Grandpa Miliney was a depression man, a trader of all jacks, jump ropes and lard cans of outdated candy! He had woods in his backyard, a real playhouse that had every Barbie known to man plus musty-smelling basement full of old toys, books, and other kid goodies. Grandma was full of hugs, food and trips to her Pentecostal church to have Jesus scared into us. No outfit for church? No problem. Grandpa was there with a new outfit for everyone.

The last day was the funnest because Grandpa took us to this magical fair where they stamped your hand and all you had to do is show it to any vendor or carney and you could have unlimited stuff! Unlimited corn dogs, cotton candy, popcorn, snow cones and ice cream! Now this was all great until I got on those unlimited rides--my six year old stomach revolted--but I still had a smile on my face.

I don't remember the ride home, as most anticlimactic events are lost to memory but that summer vacation sticks out as one of my fondest because we seemed like a family--like the Brady Bunch would show on TV a year later. When we got home that changed. My Dad was sent to Vietnam and my Mom went back to work. Funny, after all those years it has never occurred to me until now that I never asked myself, how come Mike and Carol Brady never had to do that?