My eyes focus forward and lock onto the purpose of my visit. This scant, stoic, frail version of my father doesn’t move at my arrival. The rigidity of his uncooperative body won’t allow it, but his eyes follow mine. He is delightedly surprised to see me. My visits are strategically planned as surprises now in order to avoid his chronic anxiety attacks induced by his abundant anticipation of seeing me. Ironically, I wouldn’t wish late-stage Parkinson’s on my worst enemy. It’s pure torture for him to be trapped so completely within such a broken body.
I enthusiastically announce my presence, “Happy birthday Dad! How are you? How do you like your new room?”
He wittily smirks, “It’s too small.” I can barely make out his low, crackly words.
I come closer and place a humble card and gift bag near his chair. His entire world has been reduced to living in this new medical-grade power recliner with a bed on his left and a flat screen tv on his right. This confining world matches his confining body, yet he daily struggles to retain a shred of humor and optimism.
“Wow! Is that a new chair Dad?! That looks nice!” I exclaim.
A glint in his eye shines and a whimsical smile grows on his face as he silently shows off his new toy. His cramped fingers push a button, and the chair smoothly lowers his head while raising his feet. He beams with pride at this miniscule, but rousing accomplishment. He is reduced to these small feats of joy.
I clap my hands and cheer for him, laughing at his lighthearted antics. As he returns to an upright position, I notice how much his cheekbones, knees, and elbows protrude through his papery, translucent skin.
“How was I ever afraid of this man?” I ask myself. He is the opposite of intimidating now. It’s hard to imagine how maniacal his control used to be. I thought with awe and gratitude, “You hold no power over me.” Although I realize this thought wasn’t completely accurate. I acknowledge an unexplainable, compassionate, powerful pull towards this dying man that keeps bringing me longingly back. This man, who by every ounce of reason I should loathe, still holds a poignant place in my heart. The intensity of my emotions confuses me still. This is the residual effect my dad has on me.
At that moment, a vibrant older couple come striding in with balloons and a huge milkshake. They greet him with an abundance of friendly smiles and hugs and handshakes. My Dad smiles as they hand him the cold treat. He takes a bite and sets it down on the tray beside him.
They both look at me, and introduce themselves, “Hi, I’m Bob, and this is Judy.”
I return the greeting, “Hi. I’m Andrea, Tom’s daughter.”
They continue, “We just have to tell you, your dad is the greatest neighbor we’ve ever had. Over the years he’s always been there in a pinch, to lend us a tool, to snow blow our driveway, or to simply stop by to chat. One summer, he even helped us build our big shed and then move it to our corner out back. We just can’t say enough about him. Your Dad is the greatest!”
Even though I had never met these neighbors, I grew up hearing similar words from other neighbors and countless family friends and acquaintances. This is the epitome of my multi-dimensional Dad—the world loved him while his children hated him. The hypocrisy and disparity of this secret dynamic is almost laughable now. This is my dad. The most imperfect man I know.
As these friends carry on a pleasant, but limited conversation with my dad, my mind drifts to a less pleasant time. A time where Dad violently slams down an open can of root beer in fury, erupting tiny, sticky brown droplets all over the kitchen floor, walls, counters, and ceiling. His face contorts into that of an enraged maniac. He spews out venomous, hate-filled words towards my mom that cut us all to our core. His swearing, and screaming is not a new thing, but this moment transcends to a new level as he rampages his personal attack in such a verbally precise and lethal way. We all freeze in shock. My sister sobs. My legs and arms uncontrollably shake, but I refuse to shed tears.
Mom screams, “Get out! Get out if you’re going to be like this! Go on!” He storms outside and continues his one-hundred decibel level conversation in our front yard. He has lost all control, which is so ironic for my all-controlling father.
The neighbors interrupt my wandering memory and back to Dad’s small world. His friends are passing along their goodbye pleasantries, “It was nice to meet you! We’re so glad you get to visit your dad on his birthday.” I return their smile and wave back as they leave the small room.
Dad now turns to me and points his tremoring hand to his dresser. He asks me to grab his thick folder in his top drawer. I comply. The folder is overfull with many page protectors brimming with documents. These are documents of all kinds. There are his discharge papers when he was honorably released from the Air Force. He shows me birth certificates, social security cards, marriage certificates, death certificates, divorce decrees, insurance policies, and financial statements. Some of these papers are easily 20 or 30 years old. He’s not in control of his body anymore, but he still controls as much as he can in all other ways.
His page turning becomes more frantic. He starts muttering in coherently. He reviews the same pages we’ve already gone through. He turns back to the beginning.
“Is there something wrong Dad?” I question.
“The front page is missing. The list of 20 things to do when I die. It’s gone.” His voice continues, in a barely audible whisper. “He took it, that son of a bitch. I can’t believe he took it.”
He searches the papers once more and asks me to help him turn each one. His fingers have seized up again and making this task nearly impossible on his own. He discovers that his burial plot paperwork is also missing. His panic turns to anger. His weak voice exclaims, “It just makes me so God damn mad!”
I calmly answer, “I’m sure we’ll find it. Is it in one of your other folders?”
His body is frantically shakes as he answers determinedly, “No it was right here, right where I left it, and your brother took it.”
Relieved, I reply, “Oh, I bet he still has it then. I’m sure he does. Let’s call him and ask.”
I put the cell phone on speaker phone as my brother reassures Dad that he has copies of every document. He almost chuckles out the words, “You don’t need to worry about any of this Dad, I’ve got it all. It’s all taken care of.”
This doesn’t satisfy Dad completely, but it takes the edge off. His body is exhausted after this anxiety episode. He sinks into his chair, still feeling a great loss for his papers, and his control over them. It’s then that I remember the birthday milkshake.
“Hey Dad,” I announce. “Would you like some more of your ice cream? I know ice cream always helps me feel better.”
He nods his head and closes his eyes. I reach for the spoon, scoop up a small bite, and bring it to his mouth. He methodically opens and gratefully receives the sweet contents. We continue in silence for a while, contentedly giving and receiving in such a simple gesture. He calms.
Another knock sounds on Dad’s door. A young man pops his head in with a small cup. “Hi Tom, it’s time for your medicine.”
Dad insists on introducing me to Simon before he takes his pills, two at a time. Hopefully this next dose of meds will further help lower his anxiety tonight. I’m grateful that he is taken care of so well here in this miniscule world of his now. Simon leaves, and it’s just Dad and I again.
As I hold his hand tenderly and look into his blue eyes. “I have to go now Dad.” I say with remorse in my voice.
“I know.” He responds.
The pull is so strong. Why is it so hard to leave this man I should hate?
He ever so quietly repeats, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so proud of you; I’m so proud of you. You are so blessed, despite me.”
My eyes tear up as I pat his hand and sincerely tell him, “I love you.”
I sit in my car in the parking lot, unable to drive. Tears stream from my face. I cry for the dad who’s dying. I cry for the dad of my childhood. I cry for the child I never got to be. I cry for the relationship that could have been, but never was. I cry with gratitude for the love that I still hold for this most imperfect man.