Fall

I haven't written much in awhile, at least, that does not pertain to scholarly endeavors.

My father has been ill for some time. The kind of ill that is not going away and the kind of ill that relies on our small family of sisters to take over his care and management. There is so much to say about this and in the same instant, not much to say at all.

He is much better than he was sixth months ago. Sixth months ago he was spilling chili in my car after having fallen in a parking lot outside of a restaurant that required a stranger assisting me in getting my 6'2" (give or take an inch for shrinking) off of the pavement.

I was convinced at the time that my father was having a series of mini-strokes resulting in gaps of thinking and trouble balancing. I was wrong.

For a few months I kept my phone ringer as loud as possible, preparing for phone calls at all hours of the night from a nurse, the hospital, or even my Dad. Every time my phone buzzed, my heart would leap and I would have to catch my breath. One night he coded and was rushed to the hospital. From this moment on, my phone has been a constant source of anxiety. Whether it be my sister telling me something I need to do or my step-mother not remembering she just called me or when my Dad was still randomly calling me at all hours of the night to make sure I was coming to see him.

Sometimes there has been humor to make this terrible anxiety and stress relieve itself. My sisters and I have typically relied on the darkest of humor in trying to get through difficult times. But now, there are certain things we can't laugh at anymore. I should have known that something was very wrong when my father sent me a used Christmas card for my birthday. Or when he bought the wrong sized shoes for himself, convinced that the company made a mistake. Or the many times he messed up dates and times, missing my sister's graduation or my son's basketball games. Dad notoriously began to leave his wallet at home or to get lost in coming to see us.

An eccentric man who is wealthy does not ring as many alarms as it should and sadly it didn't with us. Our father has chronic pain so his propensity for wild mood changes and

strange behavior had also been chalked up to that.

My Dad is alive and doing well for the time being. He twitches and can't sleep and doesn't seem to remember getting up at night. He is convinced he is just briefly sick, needs his back worked on, and he will be back up to snuff. He told people he had a heart attack and that is why he is in a memory care unit of a nursing home.

Presently he is still "here" and I love to hear him tell stories to my son about some of his past adventures. For years my Dad has teased me with stories that he couldn't tell me because I am his daughter. I wonder sometimes now if he recalls the stories and does not need me to fill in the gaps like I have been doing for the past few years.

When he was in the hospital at one point, during his ICU stay, I walked in the room one night and he didn't recognize who I was. (It had been happening quite a bit at this time). He said, "Katie," and briefly thought I was my mother in the darkened, quiet room. All I could hear were the beeps and whirring from the machines and the quiet chatter of the nurses outside. It was entirely peaceful. His eyes twinkled, lightly dampened and he smiled. It was the most peaceful I had seen him in years. While I was devastated he didn't recognize me at first, I would do anything to see that face of his and the utter peacefulness of a moment that I haven't seen in years.

Love is painful. It is kind and patient and all of the other business, but love by its very nature produces pain. When I told my father after my divorce that I couldn't imagine doing it all again, I remember him smiling. He looked away from me and sort of sadly and wistfully smiled, that pained expression of his. "To have a minute with your mother, I'd do it all again."