Strong Enough
Summary: Jane Read always believed in putting on a smile when delivering less than pleasant news to her children—a trait she inherited from her father. But behind closed doors, the mask comes off. Missing scene from "Grandpa Dave's Memory Album." Inspired by Matthew West's song of the same title, available on YouTube and at any online music store.
Disclaimer: I don't own it; Marc Brown and some company in Boston do.
…...
Positive. Cheerful. The face of optimism. That's how people had always described Jane's family as she was growing up. It was something she had developed without even being aware of it. Life on a farm wasn't exactly easy, and more than once Jane's family had faced disaster and potential financial ruin. But they'd always faced the tough times with a smile and—dare she say—laid back attitude. They always made a point about not getting worked up about temporal things, like the removal of the barn roof by a tornado, or the time a snake on the ranch startled the dairy cows into stampeding right through the fence and onto the neighbor's land. Even when a drought one year and torrential flooding the next ruined over half their crops, Jane's family was not swayed. Her father Dave was a jolly patriarch who sincerely believed "bellyaching over little burps" never helped anything. He was convinced that facing tragedy with a smile and good humor was the best way to overcome it. To Jane, he was the image of gentle, jovial strength. Her brother Fred was almost identical to him in looks and personality, though he seemed to have inherited a double portion of their father's natural clumsiness and absentmindedness.
It was only natural that Jane would eventually marry a man with the same basic outlook on life and even the same name as her father. Of course, her David had a brown thumb, but he made up for it with his culinary skills. All was right in her world. It always was.
Even when it was all wrong.
Jane could remember clearly the day their mother had been diagnosed with cancer. The doctors hadn't caught it in time and it was inoperable. She had been given six months. Of course, these details weren't made known to the children. All their father had told them when he brought their mother home from the doctor was that she was sick, would have to stay in bed for a while, and would be "right as rain" in just a short time. As their mother grew sicker, she tried to hide her illness with good humor—and her husband hid his own fear behind the same mask. Jane was too young to suspect a thing. It wasn't until much later that she would put everything together.
One day she woke up to her father making what was the biggest, most delicious breakfast he was capable of creating. He told his children that their mother would have to return to the doctor that day, but everything would be fine. The children went to school as usual, and when they returned, their father sat them down and told them—with that famous encouraging smile—that their mom wasn't suffering anymore. She had gone to a better place.
At the funeral, he joked about his wife, telling all the fun stories that made people laugh and wipe their eyes. Jane tried to laugh at the good memories, but it hurt too much for her. She found herself sobbing into her pillow at night for weeks afterward. But she had to be strong. She had to keep a smile on her face, just like her dad and siblings.
Now, over 20 years later, Jane found herself having to paste the smile on her face again, as she gathered her family together in the living room to explain to them that Grandpa Dave had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. She'd seen the signs very early on, but had dismissed them as simply being part of her father's infamous lack of organization. Looking back, even Jane's four-year-old daughter had realized that forgetting about having put the chickens in the guest bedroom after the henhouse collapsed was not normal. As Jane and David tag teamed explaining what Alzheimer's was, Jane's father looked like he'd merely been informed that he would have to get a hearing aid. None of the three adults wanted to admit to the children just how serious the disease was. It was the elephant in the room, but Jane and her father were very good at hiding such proverbial pachyderms from children. David had learned to be good at it as well.
Jane explained to her children some of the things Alzheimer's did—how it affected the memory, causing patients to forget things they had just done, or significant names and dates. Dave had always been stubborn when it came to doctors, as had his wife, and after losing her mother to cancer, Jane had made sure she did not share her parents' aversion to medical attention. But nonetheless, Dave had refused to see a doctor until he was found wandering in his pajamas in a daze at the local supermarket. Even Jane was convinced his case wasn't so advanced—certainly not to the point of forgetting names—until he did just that. To his own grandson, no less. Jane tried to reassure herself that at least he remembered Arthur began with an A. But there was no fooling herself. Her father was slipping away. He knew it and she knew it.
Dave reassured his grandchildren that he would never forget how much he loved them, again neglecting to mention that one day he would not even be able to remember he had grandchildren. He didn't seem the least bit worried. Why pass that worry on to the children? And he certainly wasn't about to tell them the disease was terminal.
Arrangements were made to have Grandpa Dave stay at the Read house for the time being, as doctors determined just how advanced his case was and whether it would be feasible to slow the degradation of his memory with drugs. Meanwhile Arthur and DW put together a memory album with the help of Arthur's friend Francine and her grandmother. All the adults were touched by the effort, and Dave had an opportunity to make a new friend from his own generation in Francine's grandmother. Jane got misty-eyed herself, but quickly wiped the tears away. She had to stay cheerful. But the waterworks didn't go unnoticed by everyone.
Francine's grandmother "Bubby" pulled Jane aside in typical grandmotherly concern.
"Are you alright, dear? This whole thing must be pretty tough on you."
Jane sighed. "It's difficult, yes, but we'll manage. We always do. And Dad always knows how to find the humor in tough situations."
The elderly woman shook her head in dismay. "Humor Schmumor. Look, honey, it's good to be strong. But being strong isn't putting on a facade and pretending everything's okay when it's not. I know what Alzheimer's does. I've lost friends to it. Sure, they faced it with a smile and a laugh, but they weren't afraid to admit how they really felt either. Losing people you love is hard. Even at my age, you don't get used to it."
"I don't need to worry the kids," Jane argued. "I want them to enjoy the time they have left with their grandfather, before his memory fails completely."
"And you really think it's fair to keep them in the dark, until one day their grandpa's practically a vegetable and they don't know why? I'd never do that to my Frankela."
Her words stung. But Jane couldn't deny the truth in them. "But...they're just so young. How do I explain to them, especially DW, that their grandpa is losing himself? That this illness is terminal? How do I help them cope if I can't myself?"
"That's what a family does; they support each other. And kids are a lot tougher than we give 'em credit for. I had a cousin from Poland who was in the camps during the Shoah. He was Frankela's age at the time. He was lucky; his camp didn't always gas the oldest and youngest. He and his four brothers were able to stay together, and they looked out for each other. They got out of there alive and came to America. A lot of big families were reduced to just one person, or they all died because they were separated. But the ones that survived had each other, and even the kids helped the grown ups stay strong. If kids can keep each other going during tough times like that, they can face other tough things, like a grandparent's illness. And Arthur and DW have already proven that they're willing and able to help their grandpa face the road ahead, even if they don't know where that road'll take them."
By this point Jane was fighting a losing battle against the lump rising in her throat. The older woman laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Above all, it's okay to cry, dear. Your children won't think any less of you for it. You don't have to be strong enough to support your whole family. No one can be. You need to let them support you, too."
Tears burned in Jane's eyes. "Thank you," she choked out.
"And hey, if you ever need to talk, don't hesitate to call me. I'll come right over and you can yak my ear off."
Jane smiled. "Francine's lucky to have such a caring grandmother."
"I'm lucky to have her," Bubby replied. "Now, come on, let's get that husband of yours to whip us up some treats. I'm starving, and if I'm hungry, you know the kids are."
With a chuckle, Jane followed her back into the living room. There she turned to her father.
"Did you want anything to eat, Dad?"
"Huh? Oh, sure, Jessie. I could use a snack."
Jane visibly flinched at the mistake.
"That's not Aunt Jessica, Grandpa," DW corrected him.
"What?" Grandpa Dave said, looking confused. But he quickly recovered. "Oh, did I say Jessica? Oh, well, you know what I meant. There were times when I would go through all the kids' names and the dogs before I got to the name I meant to call." He chuckled. "Imagine how your uncle felt at being called by his sisters' names and Rover and Fifi."
The kids all laughed. "Mom and Dad both do that with us sometimes," Arthur said.
Jane couldn't help but smile at the memory—until she caught another mistake. The farm dogs' names had been Rookie and Floris. Rookie had been a particular favorite of her father's. It brought the reality of the situation crashing down on her all over again. She excused herself from the room and beat a hasty retreat up to her bedroom.
"Oh dear," Bubby whispered.
"I'll be right back, kids," David said, exiting the room to find his wife.
Bubby looked around the room at the confused faces of the children and the sorrowful face of her new friend. "Why all the sour faces? Arthur, show me what's where in the kitchen. No sense in all of us starving here in the living room while we wait for your mom and dad to get things sorted."
"Yes, let's get something to eat," Grandpa Dave agreed, getting up from his chair. "Arthur, lead the way."
…...
Jane sat on her bed desperately fighting back the sobs. Everything Francine's grandmother had said reverberated through her head, along with everything she'd ever learned from her father about putting on a good face. How could he be so calm when his world was fading away? How could she be so calm in the face of losing her remaining parent? And not just to eventual death; to a disease that would make her a complete stranger to him. He had promised to never forget his love for his family, but given the reality of his situation, could he really deliver on that promise? Could she deliver on her promise to her children that everything would be okay?
Of course not. Because it wouldn't be.
The door opened slowly and David slipped in. He sat silently on the bed and wrapped a comforting arm around his wife's shoulders, pulling her close. She pressed her face into his chest.
"I can't do this. I can't put on a mask. I'm not strong enough." Her confession came in sobs.
David began rubbing her back. "I know. You don't have to be. We all know what's coming, and it's not gonna be easy for any of us, least of all you. But we'll support each other, like a family should."
"What do we tell the kids? That their grandpa will one day forget they even exist?" She wiped her eyes. "The disease is terminal. The doctor said patients only live an average of seven years after diagnosis. By the time Kate is Arthur's age, she'll have lost her grandpa!"
"You don't know that. And we'll explain things to them gradually. They'll learn what we're up against. And they'll understand." He cupped his hand under her chin and gently tilted her face toward him, locking eyes with her. "They inherited their mother's wisdom."
Jane gave him a small, appreciative smile and laid her head back on his chest. She let the events of the past few days flood through her mind, this time not making any effort to suppress them or the awful truth that accompanied them. Those thoughts quickly overwhelmed her, causing her to bury her face once again in her husband's shirt.
And for the first time since the diagnosis, she wept freely.