father-daughter-beach-sea-38302

I pick up the electric shaver. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say to my Dad. I’ve never shaved a man before. My 82 year-old father sits in yet another hospital room, one of many he’s stayed in lately for symptoms of late-stage Parkinson’s disease. He’s unable to use his hands except for the most basic gestures– picking up a sandwich cut into quarters, a slow ascent to scratch his face, grasping the call button for the nurses.

I sit beside him, running the buzzing instrument over his chin and under his nose and across his cheeks. The nurses are busy and have little time for cosmetic assistance. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I repeat. “You couldn’t hurt me,” he assures.

After, Dad looks better, fresher. I pick up his brush, combing his silvery strands back into place. Now he looks groomed, more dignified. “Thank you,” he says with a grateful smile.

I put the shaver away, thinking how life comes full circle. When I was six, my mother was away in the hospital, giving birth to my brother Eric. My father was in charge of getting me ready for school. I vaguely remember him brushing my hair and securing it with a little pink barrette. I remember thinking Mommy did it better and neater, but understood this wasn’t Daddy’s job.

Today, an orderly brings in his food. I try not to shudder when I pick up the silver lid. Three pureed mounds sit on the plate– a beige one for turkey, a white one for potatoes, and a green mound for peas. These are to prevent my father from choking.

Again, the nurses are busy. I grab a fork and feed him from each pile, washed down with special thickened cranberry juice. His appetite is good and he finishes most of the food, followed by chocolate pudding from a plastic tub.

I talk with Dad as I pick up each forkful, but memories tug at me. As a child he gave me my first taste of chocolate milkshake and buttery popcorn. We all loved hot fudge sundaes. My family’s favorite meal on a summer night was grilled steak with corn on the cob and summer vegetables.

My father loved taking a whole tomato, eating it like an apple. “God, this is good,” he’d murmur, salting each bite. Today I wipe his mouth, feeling sad he can never eat these foods again.

And yet for all his restrictions, I haven’t seen much self-pity. Instead he’s interested in others. “Does Patrick still like his job?” he asks about my oldest son. “Is Paul enjoying culinary classes?” He wants to know about my husband Randy and every detail of home life and pets and our town.

Over the past year, Dad’s been in and out of hospitals four times, mostly for infections. His last stay was two months. He takes all this with stoic calm, although he admits to depression. I don’t blame him. To not be able to move is depressing. To depend on others for everything is depressing. And yet my father maintains a love of life that’s both heartening and poignant.

After an hour, I see him tire. I say goodbye, adding the usual, “I love you.” He always says “I love you” back. I’m lucky, I realize as I walk the labyrinth of corridors back to my car. I don’t have to ask myself if I’ve been a good daughter.

My father made my job easy. He taught me multiplication tables and how to throw a softball. He picked me up from junior high dances, always standing discreetly in the back. He was quick to laugh and listen and forgive. He walked me down the aisle on my wedding day, giving a kiss before taking his seat.  He cheered my victories and listened to my worries. All my life I knew my father enjoyed being my father.

I think of the frail man stuck in that hospital room. Shaving his face and brushing his hair are the least I can do for a lifetime of love.

And maybe that’s the secret of being a really good daughter.

You start with a really good father.

 

(Postscript: My Dad passed away peacefully in July, 2015).

 

How do you feel about your father?  Was the relationship easy?  Comments are always welcome.  Thanks so much for reading and if you like, please share.  Thank you.

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Comments(36)

  1. This is very touching, Laurie. I'm not ready to even think about when the parents aren't able to get around on their own anymore. But the day is not that far away.

  2. you are such a great writer Laurie. another beautiful piece. as you can imagine, this one had me particularly emotional.

    I can identify personally with many of the feelings you brought up in this piece. but mainly the idea that it's quite easy to be a good daughter when you're blessed with such a good father. you made me realize that I've never had to question for a moment whether my dad loves being my dad. and I love being his daughter! you know him well – he's smart, thoughtful, hilarious and hardworking. we are two lucky daughters without a doubt ♡ 🙂

  3. Thanks Karen. Its human not to think of our parent's aging, especially if they're still healthy. My Dad's illness has been gradual. I can't decide what's harder. Seeing a parent go very fast or very slow.

  4. Maia, I've had the privilege of watching you and your Dad interact your whole life. You and he are both lucky.

  5. How wonderfully you paint the picture and make easy for us, the amazing relationship you continue to grow with your dad, Thank you for your tenderness and for your love. I'm so proud to call you my friend.

  6. Right back at you, Jeff. So proud you're my friend too. Thank you for your kind words and you're right, I have great tenderness for my Dad.

  7. Beautiful post. Your father sounds like a wonderful man.

    I think I got a lot of my love of the outdoors from my dad – he’s in his late 70’s now and after retiring from the Navy and while having a good 2nd career of teaching math to junior high school kids in Hawaii, he took up hiking – loves it, weather permitting, there’s hardly a week that goes by that he doesn’t get out with his hiking club – and he is not the one that everybody has to wait for, either. I joke that he’s going to live to be a hundred if he doesn’t get knocked off a cliff by a mountain goat – and I hope that’s true! 🙂

      • Laurie Stone

      • 8 years ago

      Yes, Bonnie. I hope your Dad says away from cliffs and mountain goats! Sounds like you have a wonderful father.

  8. What a lovely post. And an incredible last line. I got goosebumps.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 8 years ago

      Thank you so much, Anna. I miss him everyday.

  9. Can’t see to type. Missing my dad . . .

      • Laurie Stone

      • 7 years ago

      Diane, I miss my father everyday. I know the feeling.

  10. Wow…this is such a touching post. I am one of two daughters and my sister passed away in 2015, so I feel such a strong connection ( and responsibility) to my mom and dad now that I am the only daughter left (I have four brothers). I agree with you 100% that being a good daughter starts with having a good dad ( and mom). I am so very grateful for my dad and that he is still around being the best dad ever…to me.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 7 years ago

      Wow, Darlene. So sorry about losing your sister. That must be so sad. Sounds like you have a great family and are there for each other.

  11. I am a daddy’s girl but seeing him age has been hard. Being there for him when he has been hurt or ill has given me a sense of pride and live.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 7 years ago

      Andrea, I feel I got to pay back so much love and kindness my father gave me my whole life. I was happy to help during his very difficult final years.

  12. This made me miss my father. It’s so hard to watch them go from someone you put on a pedestal to almost childlike. You made me remember all the amazing little things my Dad and I did together. Our private jokes, etc. Thank you.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 5 years ago

      Thanks so much for reading, Lauren. Glad you also had a wonderful dad.

  13. How lucky you were to have this wonderful relationship with your father. Mine died when I was only 15 and I often think of the things that we will never do together.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 5 years ago

      Rena, That’s very young to lose your father. So sorry for your loss.

  14. My relationship with my dad was so much more complicated than yours was with your dad. Yet I miss mine as much as I’m sure you miss yours.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 4 years ago

      Karen, Every relationship has its complications, some more than others. You still loved your dad and he loved you. That’s what counts.

  15. You were (and continue to be) a good daughter!
    What is it about these times of trial and uncertainty? They seem to bring me that much closer to those who have gone before. Maybe it’s the reality of our own mortality? My thoughts have been increasingly with my parents and relatives on the other side of the veil.
    Daddy nursed Mom through the last stages of Parkinson’s. He was so patient with her. It was beautiful to see. But when his own time of weakness came, he was terrified of becoming dependant. I think the greatest blessing of his life was the fact that he went quickly. One minute up and doing his laundry–making his bed. The next, with Mom.
    My last memory of him was seeing him, this frail 90-year-old man sitting in his recliner in his room at the Lodge. We’d had a lovely visit and it was time for me to go. I turned to him and said, from the doorway, “Daddy. Be good.”
    He frowned and gave me a, “Grrrrrrr!”
    I looked at him sternly and said, “Daddy. I’m not bailing you out again!”
    He put his head back and laughed and laughed.
    I know he’s still laughing. I wish I could hear it.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 4 years ago

      Oh Diane, That’s so beautiful. Like many of us these days, we’re being confronted with death more than usual. It’s frightening to be human. I believe our loved ones are in a better place, released from the constrains of these frail bodies. Glad we can share these thoughts with others.

  16. What a wonderful tribute, and I am sorry for your loss. I know I’m so lucky to have a great Dad myself, and that he is still here with me.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 4 years ago

      Donna, I believe my dad’s nearby too and that’s comforting. So sorry for your loss as well.

  17. I’m so glad we have these tidbits of service we can do for them. It keeps them close long after they are gone!
    Love this post, Laurie! Missing my dad…

      • Laurie Stone

      • 3 years ago

      Diane, Thank you. Sounds like you had a great father also.

    • Mel

    • 3 years ago

    I love this. My dad and I are very close, and I worry that he will go before my mom. She and I are not as close. He knows that and tries to be a buffer. There are so many things about this post that got to me. Thank you for sharing.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 3 years ago

      Mel, Thanks for the kind words.

  18. Love. And BTW? You already are a good one.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 3 years ago

      Carol, Thanks so much!

  19. Tears here, Laurie.
    I’m thinking of these good dads who engender good daughters (and sons). Husby had a good dad. Then HE was a good dad. Now our boys are good dads. A pattern emerges…

      • Laurie Stone

      • 3 years ago

      Diane, Such a great way to put it, and so true.

  20. This was such lovely story. Perhaps being a really good daughter is as simple as being their to provide care and love when it is needed as you showed here.

      • Laurie Stone

      • 3 years ago

      Janeane, So very true!

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