My Dad
He turned 80 in September. When he was my age his first wife had died and both of his sons were college graduates. He had worked for the same “company” for 27 years.
I see in the news that people younger than him are dying everyday. His circle of friends is tightening little by little every year. Old and new ailments are catching up with his contemporaries.
He’s in relatively good health. He has glaucoma that seems to be under control (eye drops). His mild dementia is not worsening (Aricept). He’s had quadruple bypass surgery, both carotid arteries scrubbed, had his prostrate removed, and broke a leg a few years back. He’s on medication for cholesterol and high blood pressure (so am I) and takes several other pills each morning. He has regular checkups with a laundry list of specialists who seem to be doing a pretty good job at keeping him together. I appreciate their work.
He has some mobility issues. He uses a cane that he’s had since recovering from the broken leg. He doesn’t really need it while walking around on a smooth level surface for short distances. He does need it when negotiating rough surfaces or when confronted by steps. His lack of leg strength doesn’t help with the steps, and more than a few tire him out noticeably. He has trouble getting into my truck; it was not designed with him in mind. Getting in and out of my front door is a problem due to steps. He can’t stand for extended periods without needing to sit for a few minutes.
He’s had a martini before dinner since time immemorial. As he has aged, and lost weight, the martinis are having a more noticeable effect. One is little or no problem. However, on the occasion he has a second, the effect is magnified exponentially. He gets pretty boisterous. The volume of his voice increases. The quality of his speech is also affected. It’s as if his tongue swells and won’t allow him to articulate his words. I’ve talked to him about this. I told him he has wonderful things to say that people should be glad to hear and that he shouldn’t need the second martini for confidence. Hell, I probably outweigh him by 80 pounds and know that two martinis would make me talk loud and a little incoherently as well.
In all reality, when compared with other octogenarians, he’s doing really well. He fends for himself at home. The girl that comes in to clean helps that quite a bit. He still drives himself to and from appointments with doctors, to the grocery store and other errands: albeit a little scarily for some. When his ability to drive goes, he’s going to move in with me. We've discussed it nad he's jolly with it. I’ll have to make some changes, but that’s extremely minor compared to what he’s done for me over the years. I’ll need a new vehicle that’s easier for him to get into and out of. I’ll need to build a ramp at the front and back door so he can get into and out of the house a little easier. I may have to have the shower in the bathroom modified so he can get in and out easier. Small potatoes.
When I dropped him off at the airport this morning for his trip back to Jeff City, I told him I loved him and he told me he loved me. Statements that neither of us need to hear to know the truth of it, but which need to be said once in a while between fathers and sons just the same. We both teared up.
Every time I say goodbye to him, a little voice in the back of my head tells me it may be for the last time. I hate that voice, but know it’s telling me the truth. Similar to the Jewish tradition of living every day as if it were to be their last, I look at each visit with my father as if it was my last chance to see him. I know it’s a bit morose; It’s just the way I’m wired. I couldn’t bear it if our last words were acrimonious or vacuous. To spend the rest of my life thinking that the last words I spoke to him were not, “I love you,” would be my idea of a personal hell on earth. So I cherish our time together and look forward to our next visit and to the next time I can tell him I love him in person.
I see in the news that people younger than him are dying everyday. His circle of friends is tightening little by little every year. Old and new ailments are catching up with his contemporaries.
He’s in relatively good health. He has glaucoma that seems to be under control (eye drops). His mild dementia is not worsening (Aricept). He’s had quadruple bypass surgery, both carotid arteries scrubbed, had his prostrate removed, and broke a leg a few years back. He’s on medication for cholesterol and high blood pressure (so am I) and takes several other pills each morning. He has regular checkups with a laundry list of specialists who seem to be doing a pretty good job at keeping him together. I appreciate their work.
He has some mobility issues. He uses a cane that he’s had since recovering from the broken leg. He doesn’t really need it while walking around on a smooth level surface for short distances. He does need it when negotiating rough surfaces or when confronted by steps. His lack of leg strength doesn’t help with the steps, and more than a few tire him out noticeably. He has trouble getting into my truck; it was not designed with him in mind. Getting in and out of my front door is a problem due to steps. He can’t stand for extended periods without needing to sit for a few minutes.
He’s had a martini before dinner since time immemorial. As he has aged, and lost weight, the martinis are having a more noticeable effect. One is little or no problem. However, on the occasion he has a second, the effect is magnified exponentially. He gets pretty boisterous. The volume of his voice increases. The quality of his speech is also affected. It’s as if his tongue swells and won’t allow him to articulate his words. I’ve talked to him about this. I told him he has wonderful things to say that people should be glad to hear and that he shouldn’t need the second martini for confidence. Hell, I probably outweigh him by 80 pounds and know that two martinis would make me talk loud and a little incoherently as well.
In all reality, when compared with other octogenarians, he’s doing really well. He fends for himself at home. The girl that comes in to clean helps that quite a bit. He still drives himself to and from appointments with doctors, to the grocery store and other errands: albeit a little scarily for some. When his ability to drive goes, he’s going to move in with me. We've discussed it nad he's jolly with it. I’ll have to make some changes, but that’s extremely minor compared to what he’s done for me over the years. I’ll need a new vehicle that’s easier for him to get into and out of. I’ll need to build a ramp at the front and back door so he can get into and out of the house a little easier. I may have to have the shower in the bathroom modified so he can get in and out easier. Small potatoes.
When I dropped him off at the airport this morning for his trip back to Jeff City, I told him I loved him and he told me he loved me. Statements that neither of us need to hear to know the truth of it, but which need to be said once in a while between fathers and sons just the same. We both teared up.
Every time I say goodbye to him, a little voice in the back of my head tells me it may be for the last time. I hate that voice, but know it’s telling me the truth. Similar to the Jewish tradition of living every day as if it were to be their last, I look at each visit with my father as if it was my last chance to see him. I know it’s a bit morose; It’s just the way I’m wired. I couldn’t bear it if our last words were acrimonious or vacuous. To spend the rest of my life thinking that the last words I spoke to him were not, “I love you,” would be my idea of a personal hell on earth. So I cherish our time together and look forward to our next visit and to the next time I can tell him I love him in person.
posted by steve | 4:48 PM
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