A FIST FULL OF CAKE. Pt. III

Upon questioning, daddy explained that he’d forgotten my brother’s phone number, and it seemed logical for him to simply …wait. (Whether he intended to sit there until my mother’s return from Georgia is, at this point in time, impossible to discover).

And then there was my father’s willingness to ‘just sit back and let the world go by.’ He once made a comment to my mother.

“Erma, haven’t I worked hard all my life?” (To which, of course, she answered in the affirmative.

And with this, daddy added the proverbial punch line.

“Well, I’m done with all that. I’m going to rest now.”

And rest, he did. Mama could not get him to leave the house. It infuriated her that he would not so much as get in the car, and do lunch at a nearby restaurant. Just ‘bring some back to me,’ he’d say.

A bike in the grass. A fist full of cake. An interminable wait. A general malaise.  

It was just so easy to miss the signs. Though in retrospect one is prone to experience a twinge of guilt and exclaim, 

“How could I have possibly missed it?” 

(and) 

“It was just so obvious, ya know?”

For after my father fell in the dining room, hit his head on the table, and was subsequently admitted to the hospital with the diagnosis of a major stroke, an MRI indicated the evidence of several previous TIA’s; (and we’re not talking about Tampa International Airport). 

I may reflect on my father’s waning days at another time and in another venue, but suffice it to say here that after his admittance to a local hospital, and eventual transfer to a nursing home for rehabilitation, he left us in the course of two months.

As I previously inferred, there is a tendency to absorb a bit of guilt for not having immediately recognized the symptoms. In retrospect they were crystal clear. Whether an early diagnosis might have gotten him a few more months or years is an unknown. 

Daddy was ready to go and he often spoke about his demise.

“I’m okay with leaving now or later. I’ve lived a good life. I’ve seen a lot. I’ve done a lot. Whenever the good Lord is ready for me, I’m ready for Him.”

I felt compelled to recount some crucial experiences which accompanied my father’s declining health; in hopes that his story may help someone else who contends with an aged loved one, and to put you on your guard concerning the kind of symptoms of which I was sadly oblivious. 


   By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 46. Copyright pending
 
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