Christmas 2022, I observed a nonmaterialistic practice for my family. For everyone except my parents, I gifted an indoor skydiving experience. Since I’d heard Mom gush about going to an out-of-town dinner theatre for several years, I made that experience their gift.
Due to their weekend schedule, the soonest we could make it was the Saturday before Easter, which was two days before Dad’s 85th birthday. Even though Christmas was long gone, at least we could enjoy celebrating a milestone birthday for Dad.
We braved through the rain and arrived in an empty parking lot 45 minutes early, which ticked me off because Mom had rushed us out of the house much earlier than I thought was necessary. Turned out, the whole endeavor was moot.
Three other cars had arrived after the fact. One guy got out, walked around the building with his umbrella and made a definitive conclusion that we’d all reached. The show had obviously been cancelled and no one had bothered to inform the four of us.
On Monday, their customer service rep told me some bullshit that they had reached out to me about the cancellation, then doubled down on the bullshit by saying that the miscommunication was no one’s fault. I informed her that I definitely hadn’t received a call and neither had the other three cars.
I’d originally planned to get a refund, along with $40 worth of gas money for the wasted trip. I got the refund, but no gas money. However, I got something worth even more than gas money, a free show for the following weekend. After confirming with Mom, I agreed to take the free show as well.
After all, what difference would another week make?
That following Monday, Dad turned 85. Two days later, he fell and broke his hip. The next day, Mom called 911 to have Dad taken to our nearest military hospital, where they performed a partial hip surgery.
Durning the evening when my sister, nephew and I returned to the dinner theater while and after Mom had left the hospital for the night, Dad had a stroke. By that time, one of my cousins had concluded that Dad’s lung blood clot had probably made him faint, like it had done back in 2016.
The biggest difference was at that time, he’d been sitting down, but this time he hadn’t. Either way, he would’ve needed medical attention. And he wouldn’t have been able to go to the show. Unlike the weekend before when he was comparatively vibrant.
My other sister, her adult children, aunt, uncle and cousins came to town on Tuesday. My sister had planned to visit on the weekend, but felt she couldn’t wait that long. No one used the term “death bed,” and I wouldn’t speak it out loud either, but writing seems somehow OK.
Three health crises in a row would be challenging for anyone to overcome. I think about how Dad survived the Vietnam War and 85 years of being a Black man in the United States. Dad was born in 1938 the same year Superman was created; therefore, he’s my real-live Superman. He still has the firm hand grip to prove it.
The day after my out-of-town sister, her children, some cousins and one of my aunts visited Dad, I was moved from ICU. As a matter of fact, Dad recovered his voice while they visited.
On Dad’s first day of physical therapy, he stood up, took a few steps, then looked at Mom and said, “Bring the car around.”
Don’t blame him for wanting to go home. However, during this short walk in his room, he overexerted himself. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but the whites, which caused my sister to run out of the room in search of a nurse. Whoever my sister found, they alerted the others and Dad’s room swarmed with medical staff. They believe that his blood pressure had dropped.
Later that same day, my other sister shaved Dad’s hair, beard and trimmed his mustache. No matter when Dad’s going to change locations, we wanted him to look presentable rather than some grizzled man who’s no longer part of this world. We’ve rallied to keep him in this world for as long as possible.
The road to recovery will be much slower paced than any of us want. Plans that had been made for this month and the next are scrapped. He’d do well if he could attend Mom’s family reunion the last weekend in June.