Five months ago, I said to my son: “When I’m older, and I get sick sometime, you’ll come and see me, won’t you?”
Five months ago, my Dad had a major stroke that put him into the hospital and I flew back to the States to see him. At first, the treatments looked to be working well. The doctors were cautiously upbeat with the goal of getting him home. A fairly good recovery seemed possible. Maybe he wouldn’t drive again, but he’d be able to go home and enjoy life.
He hasn’t been home.
Despite several tries at rehab, his condition got worse. Abilities that initially came back faded. His ability to read didn’t come back. Television, the opiate of the masses, became confusing and only served to irritate. Even listening to an audiobook didn’t provide any enjoyment.
Five months later, here we are. In a room at a nursing home. Holding hands. It’s about the most meaningful thing we can do right now.