CHAPTER 21: My Mortal Fear

A few weeks ago my Dad had a stroke. I was told he was not likely to recover. I gathered up a few shirts and a pair of jeans and I drove to Louisville with my dear Trish. My sister Joan met me and we went straight to the nursing home. It was a dreary, rainy afternoon. We walked past the front desk and into the dining room where Dad sat in a stupor. He eyes were closed and his mouth was agape. I had seen this blank stare in old people many times but seeing it hang from my father's face was a shock.

Dad was a vibrant, irreverent, irascible man with a quick temper and big heart. He was the original cussing Catholic. Some would say he was a vulgar man. But I would say we are all vulgar. Some of us are hypocrites about it but all of us are essentially vulgar. (I especially loathe people who substitute the word “heck” for “hell”. Dad would say they were bible-thumpers or just plain pussies. I agree whole heartedly. )

I sat and tried to make conversation with Dad that day. He did not seem to be the least bit interested in me, nor did he appear to know who I was. But when Trish came in, Dad lit up. “How's your job coming?” he asked as clear as a bell. But then the sparkle left as quickly as it had come and he returned to oblivion. I wheeled him around the home for a while after his meal. There were sad, dying old people everywhere. They were clean and well looked after, but pathetic and sad. I saw that yearning look on many of their faces as I passed. It seemed to me that they wanted so desperately to share a smile or a conversation. But I feared being drawn in, knowing that I was not strong enough to share their burden.

The next day, I went back to feed him again. The nurse asked me if I wanted to shave him. I gulped down my fear and took the razor from her.

I had a bit of trouble getting started. I was sitting on Dad's bed and he was in his wheelchair. Every time I leaned over to minister to him, the bed alarm would beep. It was one of those monitors designed to warn the staff if the resident left the bed at night and I did not know how to turn it off. Eventually I figured out that it would be easier to stand and walk around him while I shaved him.

His skin was loose and I was terribly afraid I would cut him. I figured out how to stretch his neck so that the wrinkles would disappear. Then I carefully shaved him, one stroke at a time. He had no reaction whatsoever and I resolved to do a good job. By the time I finished, my back was sore and I had made quite a mess but the job was done and he looked good. I cleaned it all up and wiped his face. Then I sat down and tried to talk to him.

“Can you hear me, Dad?”

“It's Rod. Can you hear me?”

“I came this morning to shave you and warm up your donut. Would you like to have a donut?”

I grabbed his donut and walked down to the microwave in the kitchen. I warmed it up slightly as I had seen him do for himself every morning of every day. I took it to him and fed it to him one little crumb at a time. He seemed to like it and he opened his mouth wide after every bite in anticipation of the next. After about half the donut, he lost interest and we sat there in silence for a while.

I thought about my stepmother, who had sat with him like this every day for weeks since he was admitted and I got a new appreciation for her strength and devotion. In fact, I began to greatly admire all of the Thompson women who had been sitting so patiently with Dad for so long.