It was the day after Father's Day, and we'd chosen a park for an outdoor, bring your own lunch picnic. It was 80 degrees and piercing California light, but we scouted some secluded bleachers beneath an awning that promised reprieve from the sun and sufficient space to maintain social distancing.
There was a 100 yard walk along a 30 degree incline on a gentle, grassy slope to reach the bleachers from the parking lot. My father had to stop and rest twice along the way. I was shaken.
We'd last seen him 6 months before, over winter break. My parents had planned a springtime visit that was cancelled by the advent of COVID.
A series of longstanding health problems (of the unlucky lottery ticket variety) have progressively reduced Dad's exercise tolerance over the years, so like many families, most of the time we spend together during visits tends to be seated and chatting or eating.
This made it all the more striking to witness the decline that had occurred in my absence. He'd mentioned that he was now walking laps in hallways at home, and I thought the cessation of walks in the neighborhood were due to fear of contagion. In retrospect, he could not make it up the inclined driveway.
All of us fortunate to have living parents will eventually face their decline in function. COVID has served to accelerate my perception of my father's changes.
It's distressing to acknowledge that I don't know how much time we'll have with one another. It also reaffirming to feel I would not change the way I'm allocating my time currently.
During a lull in yesterday's shift, I chatted with a friend and colleague who has become one of my secret finance nerd circle in medicine. He's got the young, handsome vibe going with several kids and a lovely wife. Our friendship helps keep me feeling young, and is part of what I relish about my job in medicine.
Afterwards, passing a mirror, I caught the reflection of my eyes and was struck by how much older they appeared than the mental image I have of myself. In the time my dad's grown frail, I've grown old.
Memento mori.
Comments 5
Very moving.
My father died when he was 57 with a high grade glioma. We were so grateful that he got to meet and spend time with his first grandchild, our son Max.
I’m sad about losing my dad, but I now see my friends’ parents noticeably aging, and I realize it’s tough to watch your parents growing more frail too.
The first blog I read from you was about your father, so I feel like this one brings me a bit full circle.
However, I’m going to stick to denial about myself growing old. 😉 I wrote an article about being “on top of the Ferris wheel,” as blogger Lindsey Mead calls it. Much better marketing!
Author
Not only are you on top of the wheel, but you’ve cleverly managed to avoid getting ground up in the turning of the gears, Melissa!
Thanks for the reminiscence about your dad – getting to meet that first grandchild is such a gift. I’m sorry you lost him at such a young age.
Appreciate your friendship,
CD
I had virtually the same experience yesterday with my mom. New insight into unfolding failure. The chaos multiplies and is less and less amenable to containment. It’s not the age, its the entropy that takes its toll.
Author
You are lucky to have her (and she’s lucky to have you looking after her) this long. Every plate-spinning child looking after a parent eventually starts to drop a few when too many plates start falling at once.
We’re headed to the Orthopod I think she fx’d L5