A Visit to See Daddy

I can't remember Daddy not having a recliner ever.

A couple of weeks ago we loaded up the minivan with a fresh package of red licorice*, bottles of water, the newest John Grisham downloaded, to keep us occupied, and off we went. I hadn't seen my Daddy for close to two years, thanks to Covid, and since he's about to turn 96 a visit with him was my top priority this year. 

He'd gotten the vaccine a few months earlier; even after he had some issues with the first shot, he told me it was worth it to him to get the second so he could get back to living life. 

I LOVE that perspective. 

I'm beyond thankful that Daddy did not get the virus, because the odds weren't good that he would survive if he did; but here's the thing:

when you're almost 96 there isn't a guarantee of tomorrow, whether or not you get covid.

Actually, when you're any number there isn't a guarantee of tomorrow, whether or not you get covid.

Daddy made me more aware that while he was staying home to avoid the virus, he wasn't making banana bread for his building anymore, and the stopping of baking banana bread was a huge thing, because he saw it as his way to contribute. To make a difference. He was losing his zest for living from being too isolated, so he decided to just get the vaccine, regardless of any side effects, and get back to baking.

Cub Sweetheart and I were both vaccinated, so we felt it was safe to be together. Maybe we could have been safe without the vaccines - who knows?  Not me. Really, not anyone. I do know for sure I was not going to be the one to give my almost 96 year old Daddy covid. 

So I called him up and told him we were making a road trip to come see him. His voice got smaller, as he said, 'that would be really nice.' And I croaked out, 'it would, wouldn't it?'

Then I reached out to all my siblings and asked them to join me. My two brothers were able to change schedules, take off work, etc. and it was on. 

Daddy lives in a town just barely in Kansas, and barely outside of Colorado, in a town whose skyline is grain elevators and nothing else, and about the same numbers of cows and fields of knee high corn as there are people. Restaurants are either fast food or Mom&Pops who fry everything. There is no movie theater, no bowling alley, no much of anything if we're keeping it honest. Pulling into that town felt like walking up the ramp of a cruise ship.

I walked through the door of his apartment and saw him standing there, a little more bent over than two years ago, with a lump stuck in my throat, my eyes misted over so I couldn't even see him clearly, and my voice cracked as I tried to talk through the good ache and say, 'Hello Daddy'. 

And the hug. 

If anything good has come out of covid - and some good things have - being able to hug someone so very dear to you, after such a long time, well, I'll remember how that hug felt for as long as I can remember my name. We pulled each other close and didn't let go, either one of us, for a bit. 

I had four brothers, and have lost two already. Of the two left, I hadn't seen one of them for three years and the other for six, so there was more of misty eyes and scratchedy throat talking, and lump in throat hugging that went on in Daddy's little, cluttered living room. 

The three of us with Daddy for a last breakfast

Of no surprise to any of us, we didn't do much of anything the few days we were together. We talked, and talked, and talked. We talked over each other, and at each other, and when the two who were hard of hearing started talking at the same time, from different sides of the room, we all looked like bobbleheads as we tried to decide which conversation to follow. It was wonderful. 

We went out for less than stellar asian and mexican food, had an impromptu gathering serving up Daddy's peach pie and ice cream for dinner in the activity room of his little building, where residents dropped in to join us and we found ourselves remembering more stories that needed to be retold; we went to the cemetery and saw my mother's grave, and where my Daddy will lie someday, sooner than I want him to. 

Toward the end of the last day together, Daddy sat back in his big ole grey velour recliner and said, 'this has been really fun, hasn't it? We did a bunch of nothing, but we did it together and that was all that mattered. Yes Daddy, it's been fun. 

That last morning, we met at the Steak and Shake for breakfast, same as the day before. He had on a WW II veteran's cap one of my brothers gave him. A man wearing a cap from a later war walked into the restaurant, and I saw him look our way. 

Later, when he was leaving, he stopped by our table and gave my Dad a salute and told him 'Thank you for your service. You're from our last great generation. You weren't afraid to go over and serve and protect.' I sat and watched Daddy as he talked to this man, trying to store up the look on his face, the sound of his voice, the exact shade of hazel his eyes are, all for another day. 

Then the time came when I knew I had to hug him goodbye. I'd fretted over it for a month, not sure I'd be able to hold it together in face of the truth that, covid or not, we have no promise of another visit, of more time. Of being able to see that shade of hazel, or watch him slice up a pie he baked. 

When the time came, we pulled in close, and held onto each other for a little bit longer than we used to. I told him, "Daddy, I'm expecting you to do everything you can to be here next year." He promised he would. I expect some of that will be taking all those vitamins and supplements he's taken forever, part of it will be making batches of his famous strawberry rhubarb jam, and part of it will be getting back to baking loaves of banana bread to share with his domino harem. 

He walked across the sidewalk, knees not bending full from the stiffness that nothing can fix, and stepped down from the curb. Everything in me wanted to run and grab him one more time, just one more hug, but I knew floodgates would open and that wouldn't bless anyone, so I just reached out and laid my hand on his shoulder and told him, 'I love you Daddy.' 

'I love you too, darlin', you drive safe.'

*In forty years of road trips, we have never, ever, ever hit the road without a package of Twizzlers, red, original. :-)