miles, I blogged months and months ago about moving my dad into a home. He turns 89 this month. He is so fucking frail. This weekend we reminisced about how we used to go camping every weekend of summer when I was a boy. I remember him swinging an ax, dragging logs, drinking beer, having fun.
Now he hasn't the strength in his fingers to open a bag of chips, he slobbers when he eats, he can barely dress himself.
A couple weeks back he asked if I would give him a shave and I was literally afraid his tissue-paper skin would tear. I was filled with shame and self-loathing that I was repulsed by the feel and texture of his wrinkled face.
My dad lived through the depression and WWII and he now sits in his assisted-living depressing apartment, eating in a dining room filled with broken, weak, tired, and depressed peers.
I made a comment to him about a memorial they had displayed in the lobby of his home for a resident who died last week.
My dad said, "He used to sit at my table for meals; we had words."
Turns out the guy would whisper shit about my dad to someone else at the table. My dad told me that after a couple days of this, he said to the guy, "Roger, I don't know what I ever did to you but you'd better knock it off right now."
My dad followed up his story with, "But I don't think that's why he died."
Read milestyles' blog about his dad and reflect on your family and the people you love. Time goes by so fucking fast and we never know. So fucking fast...