I just visited my father in the hospital. He is having some appendix trouble, nothing too alarming. I stopped by Rich’s (a wonderland of tobacco and magazines) and bought him a pile of magazines and some fancy cigarettes. I felt nervous all morning. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it is because I am afraid of him getting older and dying before I get the chance to get to know him as a grown-up. Maybe I am just petrified of hospitals. The only time I have spent around hospitals has involved death and birth, neither of which I am in the mood for at this juncture, thank you very much.
He seemed fine when I got there; his room in the V.A. had a great view of the Willamette River. He had spread his stuff out to make himself at home, newspaper, half drank cup of tea, half consumed cup of jell-o, some various scraps of paper and notes, and was up and cruising around in some brown institutional jammies they had outfitted him with. I think he will be just fine, but it scared me to see Dad in that place. It didn’t scare adult me, with my driver’s license and mortgage; it scared little kid me. What do I do if my Daddy gets hurt? Who will reach all the high stuff and holler at me to remember my coat? Wouldn’t I be lost in the world without him? Well, no, not in the least. But that didn’t stop me from feeling that way.
It is good for me to remember this feeling. Lucy and Tennessee are still reliant on me for almost everything. I take for granted how much their worlds revolve around the chores I do for them at this phase of their life. Sometimes I feel frustrated with how much they need me. I am going to try my best to remember how I am feeling today the next time there are nightmares or attacks of insecurity at a birthday party. It might just make it easier for me to be patient.
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