WELL, SOMETIMES I DO. Pts. 1-2

My father sustained a stroke in late 2011, and had to be admitted to a local hospital. Ultimately, he was transferred to a short-term rehab unit on the hospital grounds; prior to being released.

And while the following has little or nothing to do with the context of this story, I cannot “put pen to paper” without alluding to one of the most humorous episodes which accompanied my father’s waning months.

Of course, daddy wasn’t all “there there” at the time, and he often flirted with the female physical therapists. Prior to his release, he engaged one of them in an interesting conversation.

“Honey, I’d like you to come see me when I get outta here. I’d show you a real good time!”

And since I happened to be nearby, and heard this remark, I couldn’t resist.

“Daddy, even if she dropped by, you wouldn’t know what to do with it!”

A couple of weeks later, we met with a hospital social worker, and she encouraged my mother and me to place my dad in a skilled nursing facility; for additional physical rehabilitation. But against my better judgement, my mom concluded she wanted her husband home, and I reluctantly went along with it.

However, ten days later, mama decided she simply couldn’t handle the dynamics of doing virtually everything for my father, and, as a result, my sister and I volunteered to speak to him about doing what was inevitably the right thing to do.

Linda and I explained that mama was not in a position to feed, clothe and bathroom him, and that my sister and I, and our siblings had vocational and other commitments, and could not be there 24 hours a day.

We were careful to refer to the proposed residential environment as a “skilled rehab center,” rather than a nursing home; (when in fact, it is both).

Not surprisingly, his first response was, “I don’t think so.” But much to our relief, daddy soon relented, and we, subsequently, made arrangements to place him where he could continue his recuperation.

Pt. 2

I can tell you they worked my dad hard. They had him pushing a wheeled walker up and down the wings of that nursing home. And while he seemed to be regaining his mobility, he looked as if he had aged a decade in the previous three months.

After daddy had been on the premises for a couple weeks, it so happened my sister and I made one of our recurring visits. And since she and I had arrived about the same time, we prepared to leave at the same time.

And with this, Linda said,

“Daddy, I love you.”

To which he naturally responded,

“I love you too, honey.”

This was the last time I saw my dear dad on this side of glory.

Not long after his passing, I came up with a phrase which I can’t say I have ever heard before, but which couldn’t be more accurate.

“Geriatric Rehab will either cure you …or kill you.”

The last day my father lived and breathed and moved on this side of glory, he walked the length of two hallways.

Afterward:

As a child of the Great Depression, daddy never was one to heap affectionate verbals or non-verbals on his sons. And “if it got said,” we had to utter the words first.  The final occasion I had the privilege to spend with him was no exception.

After my dad and sister exchanged their pleasantries that morning, it was my turn.

“Daddy, do you love me too?”

He smiled a quirky half-smile and responded with,

“Well, sometimes I do.”

I knew there was no ‘sometimes’ about it.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from McDonald's Daily Diary. Vol. 82. Copyright pending