letmecallyousweetheart.html

Please be patient.......this is a music intensive site, and was created with love, especially for you and me, and I wouldn't want you to miss anything!

Song Playing is: Let Me Call You Sweetheart by Bing Crosby

For those who were there, it is a moment frozen in time, never to be forgotten.
It was my father's 90th birthday, and 30 or so of us had gathered at the Alzheimer's care center where he lives to celebrate with him. He
seemed unusually bright and cheery as he was greeted, hugged and loved by his wife, his brother, four of his eight children and numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

His brightest smile came when he saw his eldest surviving son, Dick, for the first time in three years.
Although he couldn't articulate what he was feeling, you could just see the flash of recognition and feel the wave of emotion.
There were lots of photos, a couple of brief speeches, a little entertainment and, of course, birthday cake and ice cream. Dad seemed.... to enjoy it all -- especially the cake and ice cream.
And then suddenly, it was time to go. No one was anxious to leave -- least of all Dad -- but meal time at the care center was fast approaching, and we needed to clear the dining room. There was just time for one more rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday to You."
"No -- wait," someone suggested. "Let's sing something that Dad can sing with us."
On the surface, that seemed ludicrous. Although Dad was quite alert through the event, coherent expression from him was limited to two- and three-word sentences: "I'm fine," "How are you?" and "Oh, no." He couldn't
remember the names of those nearest and dearest to him; asking him to participate in a sing-along was an exercise in futility.
Wasn't it?
A different song was selected, one of Dad's favorites from years gone by:

Just the mention of the song was enough to evoke tender feelings from those of us who remember the many times it was sung at family gatherings and as a way of passing the time during long family trips. In my mind, I can still hear the melodic blending of Dad's bold and brassy bass with Mom's rich alto resonating in the old Impala as we musically made our away across the California desert to visit family members on the Coast.

All eyes were focused on Dad as we began singing:
"Let me call you Sweetheart, I'm in love with you."
His lips began forming the words of lyrics indelibly etched somewhere in his mind.
"Let me hear you whisper that you love me, too."
His eyebrows arched. His eyes sparkled.
"Keep the love light burning in your eyes so blue."
I was kneeling close to him, and could hear him singing. It wasn't the strong, vibrant voice that had embarrassed me as it boomed out mercilessly in countless church meetings through the years. But it was unmistakably Dad's voice.
"Let me call you Sweetheart, I'm in love with you."
He smiled happily as we harmoniously reached the end of the song.
Tears moistened most eyes as we savored the magic of the moment. For a few measures, at least, Dad was Dad again, leading the family in singing one of our old favorite songs.

I've thought about that moment a lot since then. There is real power in the music of our lives. I'm not sure I understand it, but there is something dramatic that happens when words and melodies mingle in our minds. It is burned into our consciousness. It becomes part of who we are and what we think -- for good or ill -- freezing moments in time.
Never to be forgotten!

Let me call you sweetheart, I'm in love with you.
Let me hear you whisper that you love me too.
Keep the love light glowing in your eyes so true.
Let me call you sweetheart, I'm in love with you.
Let me call you sweetheart, I'm in love with you.

Many thanks to -- The Author, Joseph B. Walker for the permission to use his beautiful, moving story.

This is a often slow, heartbreaking, soul wrenching disease. Where the body is, at least at first, still there, but the mind is slowly leaving us, to go to a place that absolutely no one can understand

For those of you who have experienced the tragedy of losing a loved one to this devastating disease, you know exactly what Joe is saying.

For those of you that haven't had to go through this............I hope you never will! It is something that you will never forget.

The adult turned into a child. Needing some help at first, us as their children, now the parent. The role reversal is hard and confusing. You say to yourself "I shouldn't be telling Dad or Mom what to do. I shouldn't have to watch them. They have always watched me. Always....all my life....they have guided me....protected me, whether I needed it or not, and here I am trying to do all these things for them. It shouldn't be this way. What do I do?'

We had no knowledge of Alzheimer's at the time it struck in our family, even the word was foreign, but believe me, before it was over, the word was etched into our souls, never to leave again. I still shudder when I hear it, and probably always will.

There isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it: Dad is dying.

Of course, this isn’t a great surprise. He’s 93 years old and has
Alzheimer’s (or is it dementia? I’m still a little uncertain). I’ve
written his obituary three times during the past three years. Each time we think something is going to take him from us – pneumonia, diabetes or a fellow care center resident with a surprisingly effective right hook – he rallies. If Dad were the Titanic he would have taken on water after he hit that iceberg, but somehow he still would have managed to limp into port.

Smiling sweetly, knot by waterlogged knot.

This time, however, the iceberg is going to win. Experts at the care center report that they’ve seen this scenario before, and the outcome is always the same. They give him a week or so, which should give me just enough time to
make the 700-mile trip to see him and say . . .What?

What do you say at such a time? “I love you, Dad.” Well, of course. That’s a given. “You’ve made a profound difference in my life.” Certainly.
“We’re all going to miss you.” Absolutely. “Thank you.” Yes – for a thousand different things. Even though I don’t know how much he’ll hear or understand, I plan to tell him all those things and more. But there’s one thing I won’t say to him when I see him this Easter weekend.

ESPECIALLY on Easter weekend.

I won’t tell him “goodbye.”

Sure, I understand that I won’t see him again after this visit. And I’m
aware of what a wonderful opportunity this is, relatively speaking. So often death comes suddenly, without any warning or time to prepare. How many people would give anything for the chance to say a final “goodbye” to a loved one?

Believe me, this is not something I’m considering lightly. It’s literally a matter of life and death – I know that. But if there’s anything that being raised, loved, nurtured and instructed by this good man has taught me, it’s this: life goes on.

And not just in the Lennon-McCarthy “oblahdee-oblahdah” sense, although Dad was a big believer in the Doctrine of Moving On. It’s what saw him through a promising athletic career that was thwarted by the Great Depression, and through two years of separation from his wife and five children during World
War II, and through decades of business disappointments, financial struggles and family frustrations. His positive, forward-looking nature wouldn’t allow him to dwell on past pains and failures. He was all about the next opportunity, the next big challenge, the next great adventure.

But more than just moving on with mortality, Dad believed that because of great and wondrous events that occurred on the first Easter some 2,000 years ago, life truly does go on, that death is not an end, and that families are forever. These beliefs – deeply held and intimately cherished – brought meaning and purpose to his life, just as they bring faith, hope, confidence
and security to his death.

And that’s why I won’t say a final “goodbye” to Dad when I leave him this weekend. It would be inappropriate because neither he nor I believe that it IS a final “goodbye.” Instead, I’ll probably just say the same thing I always say when I leave him: “I’ll see you later, Dad.”

Because I will. I know I will.

Especially at Easter.....Updated 4-8-04

Hi Joe....you and your family have our deepest sympathies. I will share your reprint and also the link for the webpage you gave me permission to write so long ago. May God be with you as you are secure in the knowledge that your dear father is home at last. Updated 8-17-04

I send out a daily mailing called "Bunny's Words."
These mailings mainly consist of Christian stories, and other items
of interest, with a bit of humor once in awhile.
This is material that I receive from others, or find along the way,
and feel I want to pass on.
Sometimes I will include graphics & lovely links,
but basically, what you get is the Word!
If you are interested in a spiritual uplift, please join us.

Click here to join or cancel Bunny's Words
Please specify if you are joining or canceling.

If at first you don't succeed, throw away the pain, but keep the lesson..........

These pages are looped together, so if you click on the "Next Page" each time, it will take you right through them. If at any time you want to get back here...... just click on

or visit one of my other websites......See below

Bunny's Place	He	Hannah And Michael	For Those Who Cried
Bunny's Bio	Cardinals	Other Side Of The Wall	The Sparrow At Starbucks
My Mission	Carl's Garden	Somewhere...Mary's Story	Circle Of Life
More About Scleroderma	The Third Man	Joey, My Son	Chastity
Tangled Hair	God's Country	Oh My Papa	A Forever Kind Of Love
Kevin	My Quilt	The Road Of The Blind	Dreams
Wind Song	Mommy	Letter From Heaven	Rock Me To Sleep
Let Me Call You Sweetheart	The Allegory	The Geese And The Snowstorm	Kiss Of An Angel
Golden Footprints	The Land Of Light	Remember I Love You	Let Me Count The Ways
A Mother's Memory	A Part Of The Ocean	The Next Chapter	Finding God

	The Christians with Chronic Illness/Pain Site Ring
	This site is owned and maintained by Bunny

Subscribe to Bunnys_Words

Powered by groups.yahoo.com