If the last year and a half had been worth writing about...
and parts of it may have been, but I simply didn't bother. There were a few noteworthy events, in any case. To wit:- My father turned 90 last June, and gave a short speech of thanks for all the gifts and attention
- A caregiver continues to help twice per week, and I'm visiting almost every Sunday
- Stepmother muddles on, a bit more confused and every bit as self-absorbed
Of course, behind the headlines there are a number of stories, but my focus for now is on what I've been doing to give my dad as much pleasure and meaning in his final years as I can. I could always do more, and may yet do so, but my various exploits included a visit to the cemetery where his mother lies, and which nobody in the family had visited in at least 60 years.
My grandmother, sadly, died young, years before I was born. Yet to this day, family members who knew her speak of her gentle, loving presence. Some even cry, remembering her difficult years of illness, mourning her early death. After a short while of online searching, I found out which cemetery she was in. As my spouse and I (oh, yes--forgot to mention we got married in 2013) were planning a trip to New York, I asked my dad if he would like me to visit and place some flowers on the grave. Somewhat to my surprise, he said, "Yes, I would appreciate that." So we went. Placed flowers. Took pictures--which my father studied intently when I returned, though showing no emotion at the time.
But he has mentioned my visit to his mother's grave, several times, in fact, at one point telling me that it "was very feeling." The ability to find the exact words he wants sometimes eludes him, but there's no question as to what he meant.
I've made the simple act of bringing him something to eat is less a chore and more an exercise in imagination. He's spoken often of his grandmother's stuffed cabbage, which he enjoyed so much as a child--and certainly hadn't tasted for decades. Jeannie wouldn't dream of making such a complicated dish, and even finding it in the frozen food section proved impossible. So I found a recipe, and made it. He pronounced it "a perfect meal" and "great," words which made the small thing I did seem much bigger.
As we all reach that stage, it truly is the "small things" that matter most. I'm happy, so filled with joy that I've been able to do those things for my father--and hope to do a few more.
