Daddy's little girl. I was once. Until the divorce. Then a bevy of co-ed beauties captured my dad's fancy until he found the one to marry. She was still in college when they got engaged and he was pushing 40. Our relationship pretty much stalled, with dramatic fits and starts, from that point.
Then, his wife died unexpectedly about three or so years ago. After living in the house alone with his barely functional dysfunctional son in the dysfunctional life they had created together, my sister and I swooped in and cleared the house, got it sold, and moved him to a spot near me another state away so he could get the appropriate care. It made sense it would be me to care for him. My life was settled, and calm, and without a lot of business travel. And I was used to taking care of beings - pets, children, and other relatives.
It's now been two years since he moved here and he's declined in the typical stubborn way of the men folk on his side of the family. He is the only remaining child of the seven his mother had over the course of two marriages. He's lost all the people who knew him best.
Having something go wrong terrifies the hell out of him, but he spends most of his time worrying and not enough of his time trying to fix the problem. Now, as issues are becoming more severe, his real fear - dying - is spurring him to action as he struggles to keep himself in one spot for just a minute longer instead of reeling further into decline.
He's a very surfacely affable fellow - very extroverted and hail fellow well met. He loves to flirt with the ladies in that kind of misogynistic way he would never get away with if the women were my age or younger. But, gurgling beneath his mirth is a deep, dark depression. One that had lingered for years without a name and scarred us all in its own way.
As COVID surged, so did his depression. As time went on, his core strength abated. Now, he's better medicated and receiving therapy. But also in a place where mobility is difficult and driving impossible. Driving, that last vestige of independence. It's a blow but a decision we left to him; we merely allowed him to see more clearly was necessary. He's afraid. He's afraid he'll fall again and the choice will be taken out of his hands where he'll live and what he does.
I see it coming and the nurse sees it too. We're putting Plan B for the next steps of his care in our pocket and hope we can defer pulling it out until there is no other choice.
For me, caring for him this last two years has been challenging and rewarding because I know I make a difference. I don't necessarily like my dad - he's racist and contemptuous in a way that only those who need to find someone they think they are better than can be. His politics make me ill and his anger, driven by anxiety, can be embarrassing and hurtful to so many. Yet, I find my compassion and empathy as often as I find my frustration. It's a tough job.
More on my dad later.
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