O Captain, My Captain
My father is sick. Really really sick. Like, dying or off to the nursing home sick. I am trying, cuddling with him and smiling, but unable to eat and close to throwing up. Diagnosed after several years of puzzlement with Parkinson's disease he probably got from the non a non b non c hepatitis he probably contracted by drinking a beverage with ice on a trip to mainland China 20 some years ago, it is thought in medicine that an illness can kick in a predilection for a certain disease. It had been fairly kind to him for many years, though he never had that crackerjack energy he had had before. He and I share tinnitus in the ears and flat metatarsal arches in our feet (didn't keep him out of basic training, but since he enlisted, not wanting to be drafted after college and sent to Korea like his older brother, he got to be a spy in France and Germany in the early 50s, a wonderful time in his life, instead of the "war is hell" his poor brother went through. In 1956 this kind, sweet, smart man married my adorable mother two years into law school at BU. She worked, he cooked using every pot and pan in the house, she did dishes! He was a fabulous cook who could take some old parmesan cheese, wilted lettuce, a few other vegetables or pickles and a bacon dressing and make it four star! Since I was born in 1959, he loved me like I'm sorry not everyone's father loved them. And vice versa, I was the princess, and he my king. He never spanked. Well, twice. Once I had an itchy mole on my neck about age seven. I showed it to my parents and they ordered me to not scratch it again. Of course, I did. When I showed it again, I had scratched the mole off. My father spanked me on the rear end, because he was afraid it would turn into cancer. When I went in a room and sobbed, I later discovered he went to his bed and cried his heart out in a pillow for making me cry. Much later he apologized profusely. The other time, he was driving with wife, mother in law, son, and daughter. Daughter had the loudest voice in the chaos, and was sitting right behind him in shorts. He slapped my bare thigh, and went back to driving, When he realized how much his hand stung from slapping my thigh, he ached the rest of the drive, and apologized years later. Yes, he paid a lot of money for his 154 lb. daughter to get to 131 lbs. in seven weeks of summer diet camp. And he always had exercise tips, but he clearly loved my beautiful smile and loving nature. He was never cruel about my weight. My mother was so accepting of the dear closeness, both because she lost her beloved father at 26 and because she wanted a great relation between her husband and daughter. The number of times he's handed me "walking around" money for no reason, told me how pretty I was, and pulled me in for snuggles is too many to count. I know some people don't have great relationships with their father. I thank the powers that be for my father, mother, brother, daughter, even estranged husband. Love and fun, leaning on each other. But he probably won't live another year even in a nursing home, and there goes my inheritance (haha 12K per month in Connecticut!) He's quite lucid but the prostate cancer makes him want to go every ten minutes. When he wakes up he is very confused, but he always knows who we are. The kindest man in the world should not have to suffer this way!