My father is getting older.
I’ve always known this in my head, that this day would be inevitable, but it’s something that’s been hard to come to terms with.
The other day my parents had asked me to help install their new washer.
A coin of all things had been lodged into the spinner of their washing machine, and my dad couldn't dislodge it, so naturally my parents needed to buy a new one.
He said the delivery was coming at 3:00pm.
I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to grab lunch with my dad. As it turns out, from the call we received, the delivery truck just so happened to show up right as we arrived at the poke stop.
My dad gave his typical look of confusion mixed with indignation. “Your mother told me it was 3!”
I knew better than that, though. I dialed Mom. She confirmed in frustration that the delivery was actually coming at a window from 11:00-3:00pm. He knew he had to stay home, she said.
Annoyed doesn’t quite capture it.
Nevermind that I had given my day to help him with this. (Forget playing ball or catching a matinee.) It was more than that.
The thing about it was, it felt like an episode that I've had to relive many times in the past. Dad being assigned a task, it falling through due to his being absent-minded or negligent. And I’d always have to pick up the pieces.
I did my best to hold it in, but I never had a good poker face. We continued our meal in awkward silence.
I decided to break the tension. I asked him about something I had noticed earlier. "Why did you tell the server not to put a lid on your bowl?"
He rubbed his hand. Then he said, "I've been having pain in my left hand. It feels weak, and I’m having a hard time opening lids.” He added, sheepishly, “You know, they put it on too tight."
I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me with the delivery. But in that moment it hit me.
This is a man who is slowly fading.
At times I had been so hard on him. Yet, with our pasts aside, for once, it dawned on me—he is no longer fully capable on his own. Whether it be getting his delivery times straight or opening lids.
In the back of my mind, I was aware our moments together were limited. But that was the first time I had acknowledged the meter—it had always been running.
It was whispering in a man whom I’ve loved and accepted, and what he needed wasn’t another lecture about how he’s always so forgetful or that he can’t be depended on or that he needs to leave it to Mom.
What he’ll need now, more than anything, is deeper care and patience. And love, from those around him but especially from me.
I prayed for strength and forgiveness, before regathering myself and reassuring him, “I’ll take care of it.”
I texted Mom later that day. “It’s OK. There's no need to be mad at Dad. I also see that he is older now, and I need to be more patient with him.” It was as much a reminder to myself as it was for my mom to give up the fight.
I don’t know why it hit me the way it did.
I suppose I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to attend more celebrations than funerals. But this—the gradual, eventual fading of loved ones—is something that clicked.
What’s tough is when your heroes become mortal, only to become as dependent as when you were once with them. When “I’m being forgetful” becomes “I can no longer remember.”
I’ll have to care for him more in the days ahead. I can’t make up for the past pains, but by God’s grace, I can grow greater compassion.
I guess I can keep all this in mind if the dryer ever breaks.