“You ready for bed, Dad?”
“You wanna help me...?” It’s more of a statement than a question, but still: who says no when their Dad asks to be tucked in? Answer: not me.
So I get up, accompany him to the bathroom and we go down the checklist: make sure he’s taken his medicine, brushed his teeth, taken a piss, removed his rings, eased off his slippers, socks and - finally - his undershirt. When that’s all done, I pull back the covers, Dad sits down and then - with what seems an unreasonably large effort - roles back and swings his legs up over the edge of the bed. He usually winds up in a half-fetal, half-diagonal position with his head in the middle of the pillows but his legs hanging off the side of the bed. So I lift his legs and pull them into the center of the bed to straighten him. He’s a big man, so his legs are heavy. Sometimes, he’s too far down on the bed and his feet are hanging off after I straighten him, so I have to go up on the bed with him and lift him up and back onto the pillows. That’s difficult to do, I won’t lie.
But all of this makes him smile. He likes the attention. He likes ending the day with his loved ones around him, present during the transition into his other world, his dream world: the world where his body and mind work flawlessly and his deceased friends and family are still present and - from what he tells us - quite active.
Then, I swing the comforter back over him in one wave motion which I know he likes. I don’t know why he likes it, but, for some odd reason, he giggles every time I swing the comforter over him like that, so I’ve just kept doing it that way. Sometimes, I’ll swing the comforter over his face too so that he can’t see. And the I’ll innocently ask: “Is that OK? Is that perfect? Is that the way you wanted it...?” And he’ll laugh, say, “Stop it...” and I pull the comforter back down to a more workable position.
Finally, I sit down next to him on the edge of the bed. Sometimes, I put my hand up on his chest, over his heart and rub the skin there. Sometimes I make a joke out of it and push lightly up and down on his chest until he bounces like a basketball on the bed. That either makes him laugh or annoys the shit out of him. Either way, if I’m lucky, I get about sixty seconds with him before he falls asleep. And, during that precious window, unfiltered thoughts flow from him:
"That was the strangest day of my entire marriage," he said one night, and it was true. Mom had ignored us both that day due to her anger and pain.
"I don't know why we have to yell and scream so much when we talk to one another," he said another night, reflecting on the arguments we'd had at the dinner table.
Mostly, I just listen. Because if I take the time to respond, he's asleep before he can answer. Not just lightly asleep either, but deeply entrenched into another consciousness, limbs twitching and shaking as dreamtime takes over him. I wish I could fall asleep that quickly and that deeply.
And then, it is over. And the one time of day I have with Dad that is most precious and tender has passed. In a moment, I'll walk down the hall to say good night to Mom in a similar fashion. But, for now, I look down at the old man in the bed and try to remember who this man is. And, more importantly, who he was.
My father is still very much alive, his chest rising and falling as he breathes. But my Dad - the man I used to rely on - died a while ago. I give him a kiss and shut off the light on his end table before leaving the room.
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