ch ch ch ch ch ch changes

Ch ch ch changes

David Bowe wrote, "Turn and face the strange . . . " and he was talking to me!

The last couple of months have brought about a sometimes feared, but always before postponed, event; namely, the rapid aging and illness of my father.

Dad has always been the rock in my world. Unchanging. Utterly dependable. Just there when I needed him, you know?

We lost Mom 15 years ago. But we were always going to have Dad. Forever.

A couple of years ago he had a few mini strokes which gave him pause, but didn't stop him in his tracks. About a year ago, he suffered a more serious lack of mobility due to a reaction to meds, but still managed to get around, much more slowly, using a walker.

He began to fall down a lot. Annoying, but not enough to stop Dad. He was still enjoying his life, making his daily rounds, flirting with the pretty young girl at the book store; arguing politics with his cronies at the tobacco shop; watching his beloved Hallmark movies while sitting in his iconic, red Naugahyde chair, chewing on his pipe. And always reading a good book or following FOX News or Duke basketball.

Then the big stroke hit, and he's down on the mat: 1. 2. 3.

Now Dad is, as he phrases it, "Lying tits-up in a hospital bed, waiting for somebody to visit or for the phone to ring all day."

He has lost a lot of mobility, can't do much for himself, and is now dependent on the generosity others for company and entertainment, and on the duty of the staff of his excellent care center for his most basic bodily needs.

Guess what? He hates it. No surprise there. He's been in charge his whole life. He was strong, smart, athletic; a fighter pilot; a business man; the head of his household.

Now, as he put it, "Some damned 20 year old girl tells me I'm not allowed to do what I want."
He'd like to tell her to put it in her pipe and smoke it, or give it to him so he could smoke it. But no smoking allowed.

He's still damned smart, which must be frustrating for him, because even on days when he's not sure what's going on, he knows his brain is, "really f-d up."

But this is his life now. He may improve some, but it's doubtful he'll live independently again.

In order to keep him in the very nice place where he's living, we have to sell his home, his cars, and take away or give away all his things. That just doesn't go down well with any of us.

I know this is how it goes, but I didn't want it to go this way for Dad. I guess I wanted him to be carried off bodily to Valhalla with all his stuff, singing a Viking song, and leaving me with the knowledge that he was smugly content in his life until the very end. Maybe his favorite actress, Scarlett Johansson, would have visited him the night before to chat and watch a Duke game.

There's no lesson in this. It's just something we all have to deal with, assuming we outlive our parents and siblings. And it's no damn fun.

It's no damn fun having to face the change in someone you love, or in the smooth day-to-day of your own life. And of course, as your parents grow older and die, they drag you along until you're next.

"Time may change me, but I can't trace time."

I love you, Dad.