My Father's Slippers - Intro

"That the human spirit is more powerful than any drug and that is what needs to be nourished. With work, play, friendship, family. These are the things that matter. This is what we've forgotten. The simplest things."

Awakenings, Dr. Oliver Sacks played by Robin Williams

Introduction (excerpt from My Father's Slippers -  my upcoming book)

I had a father who was ill, although we did not know it.  I realized it as an adult, when our roles changed, and I was his caregiver.  I reflected back on the important moments of my life, and he was there, but only in his shell, like a turtle.  It hurts as I think of it, not having had a father to celebrate my holidays with, see him light up on my birthday, that he was pleased that I was his daughter.

So I grew up without these special memories of him, and yet I miss him today.  This is the story of how I resolved our relationship, my father and I, his only daughter, while I cared for him during his last years, with dementia.  

Life is a journey— so the cliché goes, and it never quite takes you where you expect.  You have an idea in mind, an image of who you are.  My vision was to take time some time off from work to travel and see old friends throughout the country and further to travel to Africa for a few months to help care for sick children.  This was a lifetime goal, something I wanted to do my whole life.  I never thought about retirement.  

Instead, I came to the southwest to care for my father, who, to my surprise, could no longer function on his own, even though he clearly believed that he could.  My mother had just passed, after a long, painful illness and Dad was alone without her after six decades of marriage.  I was close to my mother and her death was a great loss for me. We were both devastated from the final loss of my mother.  It just never seemed possible to lose her— suddenly she was gone forever. When I phoned my Dad daily, he would cry on the phone, begging me to come live with him.  It broke my heart.

My parents were from the 50’s generation.  Dad went off to work early in the morning, brought home the bacon, while Mom made a good home and brought up the kids.  Dinner was on the table for my father when he got home at 5:15 pm sharp.  Imagine that, when fathers worked late in those days they came home at 6:00 pm.  He was often out of the country, and I don’t remember him coming home for dinner in my early years, but when I was in high school dinner was on the table when he came home.  Meat was symbolic of his success.  My mother prepared steak once a week — a big juicy T-boned steak, a meal my father relished.  Sundays Mom made pot roast and potatoes.

Dad was not the type of father that talked to his children— I had one older brother. He was quiet and read the paper and watched the news after dinner, and usually fell asleep in his la-z-boy chair at some point in that ritual.  My mother would awaken him for bed.

I was not close to my father growing up.  It almost seemed as if he led a separate life—his work, his overseas life, and his time with my mother.  They loved to go out, to parties, cultural events, dinners.  In the early years we had wonderful young woman— Silvia, who lived with us as our mother’s helper.  She kept a watch over us when they went out to dinners and parties.  

However, I was close to my mother, and we spent a lot of time together when my father was away.  We played cards, talked, and she always helped me with my homework and projects.  She was the one I would call and speak with in my adult years when I had a crisis, or needed a loving and encouraging word.

Why am I not telling my story of my mother and the one with my father instead? Because even though it broke my heart to lose my mother, the journey of my father was very different and difficult.  It taught me about myself, what I was capable of, and a new type of love.

My parents had been married all their adult lives— which seemed to me like forever, something I could not, cannot imagine.  I squeaked toward the one year relationship mark.  I had countless first dates, where I could not wait to bolt out of Starbucks and get as far away as the person I had just met, from the wonderful online dating sites, or from a blind date from a concerned friend who worried that I might remain single forever.  I still am not sure how others find partners so easily. I did not have the talent of picking easy going, compatible men. 

But I am digressing. In the end, what drove me to the difficult decision to care for my Dad? Was it his grief, my grief, the loss of my mother?  They each were part of the reason, but not the driving force. The truth was I wanted to create the relationship with my father that I never had. 

I moved into my father’s house— who was almost a stranger to me, a few weeks later.  My goal was to help him on the last leg of his journey: get to know him a bit, help him put his affairs in order, and and go on my merry way.  Live the life of freedom in my middle years.