Today's Women of Age

Though firmly entrenched in my 60s, I have one parent left. My dad. He turns 95 in a few weeks. He is physically frail and while still able to follow news, read books and accurately remember some events from the past, he has flights of fancy that include taking a trip to Japan (where he plans to buy me silk) and moving back soon to our hometown in New York to plant a garden. Neither is going to happen. Nor any of the dozens of other plans he has concocted recently.

He lives in an assisted living unit, has limited mobility, limited hearing (he refuses to wear his hearing aids) and diabetic wounds. Just getting him to a doctor is arduous and stressful. And he gets confused about things. Often consumed with thoughts that the staff are stealing from him (nail clippers, eye drops, Tums, shoes) when all that has happened is that they’ve cleaned his room and put items where they belong.

And I am sad for him. I grieve that he dreams of a different life but does not understand that it is now impossible. I grieve that he is often in discomfort and pain. I grieve that he is lonely, though he has made no effort to get to know other residents and my brother does visit twice a week.

I would fly in more than twice a year if my visits were important to him. He is always happy to see me, but after 45 minutes of talking he says “Good to see you. Say hi to the girls.” That seems to be enough for him. Forty-five minutes in a six-month period. He never asks how I’m doing. Is never curious about any aspect of my life. Rarely has been. At one point years ago I thought he was interested in my vintage business because he sent me a few items to sell. I was thrilled and felt seen. Turns out he was doing it to help out my cousin-in-law’s brick-and-mortar store instead which is where he bought them. I know this because he told me that and later let it slip how much he had paid for the items knowing I would reimburse him. I did and later asked him to stop buying things because the prices he was paying (and I was was reimbursing) cost me money in the end. And it hurt because it wasn’t about helping my business but about helping the husband of one of his nieces. (Later, at times, I thought maybe I should have just let my dad keep doing these buys because at least it was a connection between us.)

Like many adult children, relationships with our parents can be complicated. There is a lot of baggage. Things that were said and not said. Done and not done. But last year I was finally able to release all of the hurt and disappointment and accept that my father did the best he could. His own childhood and emotional immaturity rather stunted his ability to connect more deeply with us. (I wrote about this in Grieving for Someone Who is Still Alive.) But this visit has shown me that my acceptance and even forgiveness really isn’t just a “done and dusted” thing. It needs to be ongoing. So I am leaning into that.

As I near the end of this trip I fully realize that at nearly 95 the end for my dad could be around the corner–a bad case of the flu could do it or a fall. I know he is on borrowed time. This could be the last time I see him. I am trying to let go.