When I first moved back home to live with my parents, AKA my octogenarian teenagers, Dad was especially happy to have me home that he’d start making breakfast. A few months later, he fell and broke his hip, ending those father-daughter breakfasts.
Over the course of four years, Dad has been in and out of the hospital and rehab due to various health conditions, each time returning home lessened in some aspect of his physical and mental vigor.
Initially, he’d clamor to return home weeks before his physical health had recovered. He insisted that Mom spend most of the day with him, even telling her that she could sleep in his room as well, which never happened.
For the last couple of stays, Dad neither clamored to return home nor demanded that Mom spend the night. He’d acclimated to being out of the house for stretches at a time as his new normal.
Once at home, I’d serve him breakfast in bed. After setting his plate down on the overbed table, I’d kiss Dad on the cheek and tell him to have a good day. If it was a holiday or someone’s birthday, I’d mention it to him. A small interaction, but now that he’s confined to his bedroom, it’s about only the time we interact with one another.
I’d tried reading to him and doing chair yoga when he was more mobile, but he wasn’t interested in being read to nor did yoga interest him. Yet breakfast, touted as the most important meal of the day, has never fallen out of favor.
Before breakfast is served, Mom will have prepped Dad by washing his hands and face and giving him his pre-breakfast meds. By the time I enter his bedroom with his food, Dad has usually fallen back asleep. For the briefest moment, I brace myself before gently saying good morning.
When Dad’s eyes open, I breathe again. Never has someone sleep that has mimicked death bothered me so much. It sounds so pleasant to pass in one’s sleep. We even say “rest in peace” as consolement to one who has transcended this life.
Every “good morning” is a self-fulfilling prophecy when I confirm that Dad is still with us. I’m not sure how much he’s getting out of life, but I know that there will be a flurry of changes once he’s moved on.
As I witness him becoming less vibrant and his world now confined to a single room at home, the most activity that occurs is when various clinicians and caregivers parade in and out.
Breakfast in bed often denotes a special occasion where it is the start of a celebration. For Dad, it is the only nourishment option while he’s at home. I hope there’s never a morning where the breakfast is returned uneaten.