He was a gamer
I've posted this here at least once
But
Here it is again (heh, seems even more pertinent now);
A few years ago a lad from Scotland, I’d gotten to know, asked me how my Dad was doing, as I’d shared with him my Dad’s failings in what turned out to be his final year.
Maybe some of you folks can identify with what I wrote him.
In any event, I feel compelled to put it here, and probably in my next book.
You see, my Dad was my hero.
Oh, I wasn’t his favorite, but that didn’t matter.
For many years he was God to me, could do no wrong, I hid my wrongs from him.
Sure, as I grew, I saw his faults, but, heh, they were few.
And mine became less as I used him as a life model.
Here’s what I Emailed;
He’s a gamer, Shaun.
Days ago he was on his death bed.
Chemo and infection was taking him down…..quick.
He’s on the rebound.
To where……. I have no idea.
I visited him last weekend while he was staying at the rehab center (nursing home).
Didn’t readily recognize him.
No hair
Tiny head
Sunken eyes
Chair stickin’ half way outta the room, lookin’ out into the hall.
He looks like wunna those children with an aging disease.
He really lit up when he saw me.
I immediately felt real bad for not coming sooner.
He got up and scooted his chair back into the room, shuffling, pushing.
He invited me to sit.
There was only one extra chair
I think it had a piece of shit on it.
He had some sorta string of dried drool and blood comin’ from his lower lip, ending at his chin.
It made me sick to my stomach to look at him.
My Dad
My finicky Dad
The guy that remained well scrubbed, no matter what he did.
The guy with the weakest of stomachs.
The guy that just couldn’t eat if he thought the cook hadn’t washed his hands.
There he was……..disgusting
and so very happy to see me.
I wanted to stay and leave at the same time.
We went on a conversation loop.
He has about ten minutes of thought processing, then it starts all over again.
I grabbed his attention by saying I was thinking about going to church.
He did a feeble punch into the air, and displayed a flash of his tenacious old self, gritting his teeth and smiling with delight.
His old eyes lit up again, then welled, spilling tears as he told me how happy that made him.
Now I was disgusted with myself.
I wanted to cry along with him. I just can’t. It’s not in me.
I hadn’t lied.
I do think about it.
I think about conversation with rabid religionaires, and know why none of it is for me.
It was a visit of diverse emotions.
The nurse’s aide came in.
He questioningly introduced me as his cousin.
Well, in twenty minutes I’d completely muddled what’s left of his blithering mind.
I gave him a slight hug and left him with the aide.
Driving home, my thoughts were fixed on him.
What he is
What he once was
What I am
What I’m going to become
I recalled him and his cousin, his brother he never had, and how they talked about their aged parents
There is no fairness
There is just fact
Inescapable inevitable fact
It made me realize my own fallibility
I really don’t want to see him again
I will though
As long as I can make him happy, whether it’s a veiled lie, or just being there, I will see him, hug him, chat with him.
He has earned that…at the very least.
He’s a withered dying old man.
Cancer will take him.
I don’t think I have the guts for this, and what’s next, deteriorating visits
What have we done to think it good to keep my hero existing in his filth with confounded thoughts for as long as medically possible……
The Aleuts know what to do
The long walk and the bonk on the bean.
It’s much more heroic……respectful.
Thanks for asking, kid.
Enjoy thy youth
