Traditions
When my dad had his stroke in 1994, I drove all the way from Arizona again, to rush to his side. By the time I got to him, he was sitting up in bed. Still a bit confused by the events, I had the newspaper to read to him. He grabbed it from me and devoured it. The next day, I made him some "thick soup" as per doctor's orders (no solids, no thin liquids for post-stroke patients) i.e., chicken broth with potato and noodles all pureed. I was thinking I would spoon it into his mouth. He grabbed the jar and started drinking it.
This week, 12 years later, I brought him potato soup and some pineapple. He wanted the pineapple but requested that I feed him. He's just so weak. After ten or so chunks, he cut me off. He also scarfed down several Hershey's kisses, unwrapping them himself. Not too weak for that. No desire for TV or news. No need, perhaps.
The man is incredible. I admire him so much. He told me (in his idiot savant aphasic speech, where he reaches for similar words and they are often related, but it's like Password and you have to figure out the connection in order to get the gist of the sentence), "why all the prime show?" (Translation: why the big fuss over me?) Um, because we all thought you could get better, and you wanted to get better, so… the fuss. He seemed to accept it. "Oh."
The heart of a lion and a will of iron, in a body made feeble by time and tide. I saw a resemblance in his skin, his swallowing and his breathing to that of my mother in her last year. He is an Old One now with that unmistakeable smell, the frail gestures and the age spots and thin skin. I've seen it before on many many Old Ones, but I never thought of my dad as one of them. And perhaps he wasn't one until this illness, or maybe I have been fooling myself for the past three years.
He's always been my hero, with strong back, features and speech. A champion, a warrior, a commander. When I saw with fresh eyes, that he is an Old One, the compassion welled up in me. It was okay that I needed to brush his hair, wipe his mouth. It was okay that the papery skin of his hands covers the bruising and marks of the multiple IVs and equipment from ICU. The old man in the bed is what my lionhearted father has become, but I can still almost tangibly see the vital dad that used to be. The one who taught me to sail, to sharpen a knife, to make a martini, to splice an electric cord. This is the man who taught me to build a fire, to smoke a ham, to change the oil. I've been watching his hands, listening to his voice and learning from him forever, it seems.
And now he's teaching me how to let go of him. But also how to love him all over again as one of the Old Ones who won't be around but still is, laughing at the jokes, giggling over the amusements of grandchildren.
And with a gasp, I realize that we, me and my child, are learning how to treat me when I, inevitably, become an Old One. The lesson leaves me raw for a bit, a feeling that goes away only after savoring a good rioja and a bit of sheep feta on some good Italian bread. And quiet. Eyesight will dim, hearing will diminish, my skin will sag and then become papery thin. But my child will still look at me and see not just the Old One, but all the moments and hours and days that we spend together.
Yes. There's time to make some memories today. Time to lose a little sleep and do what Santa requires. I have time still, lots of time.
This week, 12 years later, I brought him potato soup and some pineapple. He wanted the pineapple but requested that I feed him. He's just so weak. After ten or so chunks, he cut me off. He also scarfed down several Hershey's kisses, unwrapping them himself. Not too weak for that. No desire for TV or news. No need, perhaps.
The man is incredible. I admire him so much. He told me (in his idiot savant aphasic speech, where he reaches for similar words and they are often related, but it's like Password and you have to figure out the connection in order to get the gist of the sentence), "why all the prime show?" (Translation: why the big fuss over me?) Um, because we all thought you could get better, and you wanted to get better, so… the fuss. He seemed to accept it. "Oh."
The heart of a lion and a will of iron, in a body made feeble by time and tide. I saw a resemblance in his skin, his swallowing and his breathing to that of my mother in her last year. He is an Old One now with that unmistakeable smell, the frail gestures and the age spots and thin skin. I've seen it before on many many Old Ones, but I never thought of my dad as one of them. And perhaps he wasn't one until this illness, or maybe I have been fooling myself for the past three years.
He's always been my hero, with strong back, features and speech. A champion, a warrior, a commander. When I saw with fresh eyes, that he is an Old One, the compassion welled up in me. It was okay that I needed to brush his hair, wipe his mouth. It was okay that the papery skin of his hands covers the bruising and marks of the multiple IVs and equipment from ICU. The old man in the bed is what my lionhearted father has become, but I can still almost tangibly see the vital dad that used to be. The one who taught me to sail, to sharpen a knife, to make a martini, to splice an electric cord. This is the man who taught me to build a fire, to smoke a ham, to change the oil. I've been watching his hands, listening to his voice and learning from him forever, it seems.
And now he's teaching me how to let go of him. But also how to love him all over again as one of the Old Ones who won't be around but still is, laughing at the jokes, giggling over the amusements of grandchildren.
And with a gasp, I realize that we, me and my child, are learning how to treat me when I, inevitably, become an Old One. The lesson leaves me raw for a bit, a feeling that goes away only after savoring a good rioja and a bit of sheep feta on some good Italian bread. And quiet. Eyesight will dim, hearing will diminish, my skin will sag and then become papery thin. But my child will still look at me and see not just the Old One, but all the moments and hours and days that we spend together.
Yes. There's time to make some memories today. Time to lose a little sleep and do what Santa requires. I have time still, lots of time.
3 Comments:
That is beautiful and heartbreaking and inspiring all at once. I wish you and Wonderboy and your very special Old One a wonderful Christmas Season. Time spent with them is the most precious gift of all.
Ah, beautiful post. Love the ending where you understand your son is being prepared for the same role you are in now.
Happy Holidays.
thanks, y'all. It's still a raw lesson to learn... maybe better to be young and dumb a bit longer. ;-)
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