Thoughts, 7/12/26
Reflections on the softening that comes with old age
Yesterday afternoon, my father gave me a belated birthday card with a check in it. He used to write nonsensical messages in his cards, notes so strange I can’t begin to recall them. Sometimes, they were followed by a crude little drawing of a pig or another of his heroes from the farm, but this one was simple: “Happy Birthday, Lauren. Love Dad.” And that’s it; no adornments.
On first sight, it would seem like a card lacking effort, but I know it means more than a letter. Those five, simple words were not easy to write and the mention of my name was not necessary. Still, he wrote it, to make it more personal, the absence of a crude little drawing quite simply a sign of his dwindling dexterity. My father’s handwriting has gotten smaller and shakier these last couple years, such that his words occupy no more than a square inch of whatever canvas he is inscribing. He is slipping further from focus, in real life and on paper, though he is trying very hard to stick around. “He insisted on writing it,” my mother said through a whisper, “though he did let me fill out the check.”
My father has always been generous towards me, and pathologically cheap otherwise. Thus, I joked with him that I would happily remove a zero from the check if he was having second thoughts, to which he chuckled and said, “No…that’s okay. That’s your gift.” We spent some time chatting thereafter, about my recent trip to the world of his childhood in Upstate New York, and about the experience of growing up with so much snow. “You couldn’t find the school half the time,” he recalled. “It was great!” And he smiled, ever mischievous. Then we found our way to the topic of my childhood, to the tremendous love I always felt for the dog, and we remembered how Pepper, the dachshund I grew up with, would plunk himself down in the middle of the sidewalk whenever his legs tired out. If my dad was the “walker,” he would try to negotiate -(“Oh come on, Pepper. Don’t do me like this…”)- while if I was the walker, I would stumble back home with the dog draped across both my arms.
“Shh…” my dad said, a light in his eyes. “He’ll hear you; he’s sleeping outside.”
“Oh Leslie, come on,” my mom swiftly protested.
“Well he is. He’s out growing that lemon tree.”
When my mother left the room, my father lowered his voice and suggested we buy her a gift, something to show her how much he appreciates the care she’s been recently giving him. I promised to help in the effort, though I fear she will never acknowledge his gratitude. Long ago, she decided he was incurably selfish, and she has played this record on repeat so long, she’ll be deaf to any change in the tune. Often, I find myself wondering what -if anything- will break through her stories. Old age, a suicide attempt, and Parkinson’s broke through my dad’s. He doesn’t fight much anymore. He doesn’t complicate everything from ordering takeout to buying a dishwasher. He just sits back and goes with the flow, defeated by age and in helpless surrender. After dinner, he leans on his walker and hangs his gray head between his muscle-less arms, perhaps because of nausea, perhaps because of dizziness, perhaps because he’s trying to remember what he ought to do next, which is generally nothing. Then he rises to his feet and shuffles to his armchair, the one that my mother just bought him today. I’m impressed by his mindful descent to the cushion, each step of the process rehearsed.
Years back, it would have taken my father 6 months to choose a chair. He would have yelled throughout the process, he would have found a reason not to like whatever he ultimately selected, and he would have insisted he’d been ripped off no matter the deal he had found. Then he would have kept the chair for 40 years, refusing to let go of the tired old thing even when it bothered his back. Today, however, my father did not protest the arrival of his improved navy throne. Rather, he thanked us both for our efforts, not a peep to be said about the price. It was always within him, this sweet, gentle lightness; I’ve seen glimmers of it since my childhood. He just had to be forced from control by old age; he just had to be wrenched from himself. So often, it seems, people find their true nature when they have so little time left to live it. I hope, for my part, that I soften up sooner, that I accept “the new chair” when I still have a good many years to enjoy what it offers.