Taking Care of Dad

Guest post by Kourtney

I am not the primary caretaker of Dad. Or even the secondary caretaker. I don't know just how he likes his pillows situated or what foods he might be craving like Mom does. I don't know all his medications by heart like Kami does. That said, I have learned a few basics: how to move his legs to the edge of the bed, but let him sit himself up; how to set his walker close enough that he can grab onto it but not so close that he doesn't have space to slowly drag his legs over inch by inch; how to spot--but not fully support--him as he falls into his reclining patio chair; also to remind him to eat and drink, empty his urinals, and turn the TV to the right setting to watch either the 1992 movie Last of the Mohicans for the upteenth time (TV goes to HDMI2, Apple TV goes on, and then it's first in the Netflix queue) or watch an old Sci-Fi or other comforting, familiar movie on DVD.  I also have taken on the task of trimming his mohawk to just the right thickness and length, gently moving his head around as needed to get the right shape as well as to razor the non-mohawk parts.  I am learning to hold his hand whenever possible, to look into his eyes (even when it makes both of us cry), to kneel by his bedside at night and wait for family prayer, and to just periodically check on him even when he doesn't call or ring his bell.

During the more mundane tasks, I sometimes feel like a hospital nurse, walking in while rubbing sanitizer into my hands, asking him how he's doing, attending to emptying or filling bottles as necessary while we chat. But most often I feel like his daughter, wanting to help but most of all just wanting to be with him. He asks and of course I will lie next to him and watch Last of the Mohicans. In my mind, I find and analyze all the inaccuracies, biases, and just plain silliness of the movie (the main 'Mohican' is actually an adopted white guy?!), but then I look over at him and my heart fills with the same sympathy and respect that he feels for the father of the dying tribe, who will stop at nothing to protect and defend his children, and I can't help but squeeze his hand and wipe my tears.

As I look at Dad, I feel honored to be part of his tribe, to be able to care for him, even as I care for my small children. I certainly did not imagine that I would be attending to a fatally ill parent between sessions of nursing my baby, but this is what life has given us and we deal with it. We face it and we "keep on keeping on," as dad has always said. I hope to spend many more hours with my dad, taking care of him but also just hanging out with him. I don't mind at all when he pauses the movie to give me a fifteen-minute explanation about the history of cannons and other firearms in warfare, or just to give a recap of the last twenty minutes of the movie (that I just watched with him). He is talking, and I love that. I don't want him to die, but that seems irrelevant at this point. So I cling to what I can and try my best to move forward.

I long imagined that I would someday care for him in a similar way to how he cared for me, but I never considered that mohawk trimming would be part of the job description. And it is such moments--the unexpected moments of peace and happiness during an unexpected period of such tragedy--that stand out. Even though we are all shattered to have to go through this, it's hard not to smile when you see him now. His body reveals the tragic tale of a battle with cancer and chemotherapy, but his smile and mohawk reveal the uplifting tale of a life well lived. As it turns out, I am happy to be part of both tales.