Dangling Participle

Tuesdays belong to my dad.  It wasn’t intended; no basis on the book, “Tuesdays with Morrie”(which if you haven’t read, do). It just worked out that way.  My stepmom needed a break, and I needed a committed routine.  So, Tuesdays it is.  But he wouldn’t know regardless.  My dad has lost track of time, places, ideas, but not grammar.

Last week I saw him in his usual spot.  He was parked in his wheelchair amidst other chairs and elders, his body slumped to the right, head fallen forward, drifting between sleep and consciousness. It’s easy to spot him.  His silver grey hair has a shine, so when I approach from the back of his nursing facility, his head has a glow, equaled by his smile. I squat beside him and rub his shoulder until he awakes and then, after some time he smiles with recognition and comfort. It’s Tuesday.  We can escape.

I ask him if he wants to take a walk or stay in his chair while I push.  His answers vary and change within whatever sentence he is putting together. But as long as he voices acceptance, we choose that path.  This week, I push.  We slip out the front door and he says good bye to the ceramic dog that sits at the entrance with a welcome sign hanging from its mouth. Dogs have always stolen his heart…and his stroked, clenched hand will try to unfurl to pet any canine, even cement ones.

We start walking.  It is as he can enter the moment when we leave his facility.  The fresh air, the sunshine, the sense of life beyond his walls waken him. And he can complete a thought.  He can inquire into my life.  He can offer advise and guidance which my father is known to do.

Nine years ago, my father was struck with pain.  As a runner, hiker, sailor, manager, and simply a man who couldn’t stand still, he bustled through it.  He kept going as he worked in finance, and it was the day of the big crash. There were more important things to tend to than the body’s cries. The pain persisted.  So did his panic for the market.  Hours later, he was in the hospital, the doctors confounded. Someone recognized an aeortic dissection and rushed him to surgery.  He stroked in the operating room, and though his heart was saved, his body suffered, and slowly his brain function too.

As I push, he asks me about my life…am I happy? How are the goats? What are the girls doing? I respond in simple sentences, and then he notes that I used a dangling participle, and you can’t just be left hanging.  My heart leaps. Of all things, a participle.  And of all types, a dangling one!  An uplifting sensation of pride and wonder filled me.  Because try as I may to not judge or cast conceptions, I am a grammar snob.

I love it.  I love reading someone’s writing who has control over commas and can slay a sentence with a semicolon.  I still fear using those.  I drool over run on sentences that are framed perfectly and guided with ellipses or conjunctions, needing nothing more than the reader’s trust that the sentence will come to rewarded ended. I love the rebels and poets that throw punctuation rules apparently to the side, only to reign them in in just the way a painter would create and illusion with a shadow of grey. And here, my debilitated father spotted an incomplete comment and handed me a citation.  Damn!

The truth is I’ve been scared to become my father and not just in his bodily decline a decade ago.  My father was a master manipulator before his stroke, convinced the ends justified the means.  It gave him warrant for behaviors that I chose to criticize.  I vowed I would never bride or guilt people into actions. Vows often break.

My father refused to acknowledge negative emotions…jealousy, anger, sadness, doubt, fear. These were weaknesses of the mind and of from our connection to God.   Our religion would define them as “Mental Malpractice” and not part of our divine existence.  He was always seen as looking on the bright side.  But in his mind, there was no other side worth looking at. So what happens when a child voices jealousy towards a sibling or anger towards an outcome? So, again, I promised myself I would accept these as human behaviors…but I still resist them.

And, he was addicted to food as a comfort . He would eat copious amounts that would leave us astonished. This was usually done within the confines of his home. With his charm and grin, he would entice me into food runs where we would buy ice cream and Sara Lee cheesecake and watch Creature Features in scared and sugared comas.  I know.  It sounds fun.  But it was constant and came with consequences. Truthfully, he was avoiding his pain and escaping into historic stomach solace. My own eating disorders, body breakdowns, and self harming behavior followed, despite my fear to follow my father’s patterns.

But here, as I pushed and he listened to comments and concerns, I saw my father as someone I admire and adore and would gratefully follow. If my movement someday declines, I hope to reside in this faithful body with grace and acceptance as he has done.  If my mind becomes tormented by delusion and doubt, I hope to find trust and calm in a kind heart and a warm smile. And despite my physical struggles, still find the joy in what exists outside my walls. And no matter what my state of decline or decay, I pray to hear the ones I love with my heart open when they share their stories and worries and dreams. I hope to listen with genuine care and concern and offer only occasional tried but not always true guidance.  And somehow,  may I never leave a participle intentionally dangling. Period.