Oliver: Even optimists sometimes have to face their darkest times

The next couple of weeks just might be the hardest ones I face all year.

Over the years, I haven’t even needed a calendar to know that these significant events were looming. Some kind of internal alarm always goes off, bringing the inevitable sadness with it.

My father died on Sept. 3, 1987, when I was 19 years old. It was a couple of weeks before I was due to return to Northwestern for my sophomore year of college.

To say that this was a traumatic event in my life would be an understatement. It was seismic.

In hindsight, the signs that my 65-year-old dad was dealing with cancer should have been apparent, but I didn’t know then what I know now. My stoic father used to brush things off with a shrug. He had a backache, he would say. He was just tired, he would say as he headed off for a nap in his bed rather than in his favorite easy chair.

When he finally wound up in the hospital, it was already too late. There was nothing that could be done and he died nine days later.

Somehow I navigated those months after his death as best I could. Mostly I just tried to put one foot in front of the other. Just as I do now.

Still, my whole being always knows when the anniversary of that fateful date will be. I start to feel the sadness creeping in by mid-August.

These days I also have another thing I dread each year: when I have to take my beloved husband, Tony, to see the neurologist about his Alzheimer’s disease.

These yearly check-ins are a stark reminder of how much function Tony has lost over the past 365 days. This year has been particularly tough, so I know I will have to fight back tears as he “fails” the annual test of skills, such as remembering a list, putting together a sentence, and knowing where he is.

Granted, this short assessment is hardly a full picture of what we go through every day, but it’s enough to remind me that as hard as I try to put a happy spin on this, it’s only getting worse. This disease does not end well, no matter how good and skilled the caregiver.

This year, too, brings one of those “big” anniversaries the entire nation will mark. Twenty years ago, the Sept. 11 terrorist attack rocked all of our worlds.

A recent TV ad for a documentary about that day showed a plane going into the World Trade Center in New York City. It’s an image I’ve seen more times than I can count. This time, however, I found myself tearing up. That reaction surprised me, though I suppose it really shouldn’t.

I’ve learned over the years that this sadness will pass. I know that it’s OK not to be OK.

Still there are a few things that I will do in the meantime.

I’ll remind myself that my father, who missed so many of the good things that have happened to me since he died, would have loved Tony. They no doubt would have tag-teamed me in their teasing, and I would have loved every minute of it.

I’ll also remind myself that my father probably would be proud of the woman I’ve become, seeing his own quiet way of handling crisis in the way I go about things. Or that’s my hope anyway.

I’ll remind myself that my dear Tony is more than the sum of a test that points out his failures. Rather, I’ll remember all the things he still can do and how we work together to face each new challenge as the team we always have been.

I’ll remind myself that it’s OK to grieve and normal to feel sad as I remember past tragedies.

Through it all, I’ll make sure Tony knows that he isn’t the cause of any of this sadness. I’ll be honest with him when he wants to know what’s wrong if he sees me cry.

Most of all, I’ll remind myself that this too shall pass. Because it always does.

• Joan Oliver is the former Northwest Herald assistant news editor. She has been associated with the Northwest Herald since 1990. She can be reached at jolivercolumn@gmail.com.