Jodi Melsness - The Lemon Bar Queen: A Memoir of Love, Baking, and Memory Loss

For my parents, Russell and Jeanne Lundell. With love, from your brown-eyed girl.

And for all families dealing with memory loss and doing the very best they can, every single day.

Contents

Prelude

August 2007

I m listening to the quiet, gentle whir of my dads oxygen concentrator as I sit cross-legged on the worn yellow carpet in our living room. I can just see my dad through the door. He is lying in his hospital bed in the den, and the sounds of golf are coming from the TV. My mom is busy in the kitchen wiping off counters. I can smell freshly brewed coffee. She will not sit down. I know she is trying to keep busy by baking and cleaning. I can tell she is a nervous wreck but doesnt want anyone to know.

In front of me is a stack of papers from Bremer Bank. My dad has given me the task of organizing their bank CDs in the order of maturity. I am overwhelmed and anxious about this project, but I dont want to let him know. I can feel this is of great importance to him.

One of the things I notice is that they have more money invested than I thought, and I am proud they were so organized. What I am surprised at is that he is trusting me to take care of all of Moms needs.

My dad has advanced lung cancer. He stopped his chemo treatments two weeks ago and has declined quickly. I asked for a leave of absence from my nursing job in Minneapolis and drove the two hours to my hometown of Starbuck, Minnesota. Its the first time I have left my almost four-year -old and my husband for any length of time. I am reminded of all the good memories of my hometown.

As I look up from the papers, my dad motions for me to come into the den. Over the last few days, I have watched him slowly fade away. During this time, my mom has been bone-weary but refuses to give up on the thought that he will get better.

Today they have been married four days shy of sixty yearsan eternity in our day and age.

I slowly get up from the floor and go into the den. My dads oxygen cannula is half out of his nose. I gently put it back in. I look at the time and apply a new fentanyl pain patch to keep him comfortable. He is looking pale and thinner than I have ever seen him. He tells me he is thirsty, and I give him a drink of water and fix his rumpled sheets. I sit by the bed and he looks at me with a look of such sadness. Jodi, Jodi, Jodi. He softly repeats my name over and over and continues to stare at me.

Your mother is getting more confused every day, he says. I know I have told you about her forgetting her purse at the caf, and she is forgetting things in the oven. Last week, she forgot the eggs in the brownies. When Im gone, its up to you to take care of her. You must look after her. Whatever you need, I have spelled out all of it in those papers you have. Sell the house and do what you feel is best for her. I know you will take good care of her.

The whole time he is speaking, he is holding my hand and I can hear Mom on the phone giving someone an update on how he is doing. She is not a part of the conversation. I wish she was right here with me. She would realize that my dad wants me to take care of her and that she will be all right after he is gone.

Dad, Ive noticed shes been more repetitive on the phone and I can see some of the forgetfulness, I say. Please dont worry about Mom. I will make sure I take care of her just like you did. Please dont worry.

I know he wants to say more but the medication is making him drowsy. The cancer is taking my dad and leaving my mom without a husband and my brother and me without a father.

Before I go to bed, I give my dad a sponge bath and I feel the warm tears stream down my face. My brothers girlfriend, Heather, has come to help me because I dont want my mom to lift him. I know he will die soon. I can see it in his breathing. And he has stopped verbalizing. His death is coming.

He has lost fifteen pounds from his once-strong body and he can barely move himself without help. I see the scars that make him who he is. The scar on his back from falling out of a deer stand. The scar on his fingers from the surgery to separate his webbed fingers at birth and the reason he never wore a wedding band.

As I wash his face, I can see the big faded scar from his heart and lung surgeries, which he recovered from just in time to walk me down the aisle at our Lutheran church. He is full of the marks that make up his eighty-one years.

I finish putting lotion on his legs, and my mom comes in to ask if we are hungry. Im not sure if she realizes that her husband will die soon. I try to keep her busy so she doesnt feel she needs to help turn him. I ask if she will make me something. She has always felt the need to be useful, and the kitchen is her sanctuary. She has barely sat down since I arrived, and I am worried about her.

When we both get ready for bed, I ask Mom if she wants to sleep beside Dad in the twin bed next to his hospital bed. I slept in that bed last night, although not much sleep happened. My nursing instincts kept me listening for any breathing or pain issues. I could also hear the concentrator all night long, humming along, keeping my dad comfortable. Little would I know that years later, after all the patients on oxygen I have taken care of, I can still picture that night before my dad died and hear the hum of that concentrator.

During the night there is a terrible thunderstorm, the kind that shakes the windows. Rain continues to fall in sheets against the windows, and I can feel the wind through the old windows in their house. Again I cant sleep. Its 2 a.m. and I am worried and scared. Im in an unfamiliar bed and my parents bedroom is lit up like the Fourth of July. When I was a child, my dad always told us that when it thundered loudly it meant God was bowling in heaven, and I believed that for the longest time. I told my girls the same thing. Even to this day, my younger daughter reminds me when it is storming outside that Papa is bowling in heaven!

I crawl out of their bed and find my way around the house using the lightning for illumination. Loud cracks of thunder continue. I turn the corner toward the den and I can hear the humming that I am supposed to hear, but I cant hear my dads loud mouth breathing. I look at my mom and she is sound asleep, gently snoring on her side.

I walk over to my dads side and I can tell that he is gone. He is a grayish color and his head is off to the side. He looks like he is taking a peaceful nap, the kind that he always tried to sneak in after a long day out in the farm fields. I reach for the oxygen tubing and pull it out of his nose. I close his eyes and mouth and sit with him for a moment before I wake up my mom. I love you and will miss you, Dad.