I have hope that when disease, age or very bad luck comes for me my daughters will have the flexibility, patience and strength of memories to reroute for me. And I must hope that they have until well after my 60th birthday to grow these virtues.
Over the past few weeks, my dad hasn't been able to fasten his own seat belt getting into my car even once. Today he managed to unfasten it three times as the vehicle was in motion, in an attempt to get out of the car in his frustration and anger.
I'm thankful my car has auto lock and I could control that as my heart fell to my stomach and I steered us out of traffic each time. There's nothing easy about an angry incoherent man throwing a punch at the windshield when you're in the driver's seat. It's downright alarming.
My 65 year old dad and I have spent long days together this summer, coming and going from my childhood home in a routine of coffee, walks, art class, gadding about town and driving. Until today, driving has been a soothing, reorganizing activity. He has been a happy passenger, even when we're hitting that awful afternoon traffic slowdown on the Burnside Bridge. I know my dad doesn't always know who I am on these days, but that's okay with me. Until today I haven't triggered an upset in his world the size of a mountain and speed of a hailstorm, which is to say it hit large and hard and changed the landscape we've been able to tender.
I'm lucky. I choose this weather with my dad. When I think about all the people without daughters or loved ones to stand by these times, I think about the people who show up for this work. They give long hours to unpredictable, sometimes volatile people, and usually with poor pay. They have few clues or any shared history from the lives of their dementia patients, which is often something that makes it work for me. Yes, I'm lucky. I can lean in to the legacy of our lives for compassion, patience and care.
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