I turned up on my dad’s porch the other morning very early. It was 7.30 and Dennis had dropped me off on his way to his job up in the mountains. I figured I’d wait a bit since lately my dad’s been sleeping in. But I could hear him inside puttering around with breakfast. Still I figured I’d let him finish with that. I sat down and watched all the little birds jump around the trees in his yard. Then my phone rang. It was my dad, calling from inside the house, telling me to remember to bring my laundry because we’d talked about that the day before.

“I’m out on your porch,” I told him.

“I thought you sounded close,” he said. “So anyway, don’t forget to bring your laundry.”

“I’m going to knock on the door now.”

“You’re what?”

I knocked. He opened the door and said “Hi” into the phone. Then hung up on me.

It was a moment that made me smile, which was a pleasure because for the last little while, what to do with my face has been complicated.

When Dennis and I moved here in 2020, I knew hanging out with my dad as he aged would be all sorts of things. I knew that I’d never be able to put my finger firmly on what all those things might be. No matter how much information I had/have about his end-of-life wishes, it’s all the in-the-here-and-now moments that are slippery. But just like my favorite childhood summertime front-lawn cooldown accessory (just don’t point it toward the street), there’s a great amount of Slip ‘n Slide involved with these months and days.

This particular Tuesday we were going to do his laundry, go get him a new phone, then on to a doctor’s appointment. Kind of a lot. Laundry went fine. We got in the car—I’m the designated driver as much as possible these days—and went to find him an old-school rotary phone. He knew of a place, couldn’t remember the name, would direct me there. I immediately became nervous thinking, Note to self: In future, plan ahead and already have a place picked out so as not to wander too far afield. But yet, he’s still a guy with a plan. He knew where he wanted to go. We got on the freeway and started to drive. He would tell me when to get off and where the store was. And we drove. And drove. And I became nervous we were going to end up in Palm Springs (an hour away. not a place for phones in July at over-100-degrees). At one point he asked, “what are we doing again?” and I said, “Going to buy you a phone. You’re going to tell me where the store is.” And he agreed, Yes, that’s what we were doing as my stomach clenched. I thought, (again) Why wasn’t I better prepared? The Rocket 88 (his car. a Honda.) rumbled on as many trucks passed us, shaking the thing, until in the distance I saw a Best Buy. “There,” I said, “let’s go there.” “Yeah, that’s the place I meant,” he said. I was relieved.

Pulled into the parking lot and found a space close to the store. By the time I’d made it around to the passenger side he’d just launched up. (It’s taking a few tries to get out of cars lately.) As he turned back to get his cane, I was noting to self: Stop parking so close to other cars to give him more room to get out and that’s when he fell. I watched in horror as he tumbled back into the car and down into the space between the seat and the dashboard. Cold terror washed me. When people say things happen in slow motion, they are not lying. He yelled ouch because he’d scraped his arm, although miraculously that was all that happened physically. Just a tiny scratch on his arm. I was able to pull him up, no bruises, knockouts, broken bones. The adrenaline was shooting through us both and I know he was mortified, confused. “How did I get here?” he asked. And he wasn’t talking about the parking lot. It was a time-based-living question. And while in that moment I was actively storing emotions like a squirrel, saving them to feel fully later, in the here&now I knew his question was rhetorical. Instead I said, “Wow, that was scary.” When he added, “I’m sick of it,” it only made sense to agree. “Yes, of course you are.” There’s nothing more to say. The lesson I’m learning is not to placate. I love and respect him too much for that. But damn it’s hard not to throw the old, “well at least you didn’t…” line of thinking around. There’s no need. He’s pissed. He’s more than occassionally humiliated at how his body is not moving like it did, how his memory is not retaining as it has. This is all happening and there’s no reason to pretend otherwise. He wants to be heard on the topic.

As I wrapped up the tiny (thank G-D) cut on his arm with one of the blue surgical masks he has scattered among his collection of masks on the dashboard, I thought, Note to self: put first-aid kit in car. We went in and bought the phone (the very last rotary phone pushed to the back of the shelf). We drove off to find lunch. He remembered a German restaurant somewhere along the main drag he liked from back a few years ago. I thought Oh-mi-Lord, shouldn’t I make an executive decision for the Denny’s across the street? But I didn’t. I figured we’d look for the German place. We found it. Cute biergarden-y thing. Got a table and I went to order the food. All the good deli meat selections you would want from a German food counter. When I asked if by chance an egg-salad might be a thing? the counter lady said “No, sorry,” then she half-whispered But I can make you a cheese sandwich if you’d like. I’m guessing you’re a vegetarian. And this was the moment I came closest to losing it. All the emotion from thinking I had to hold it together and how many times throughout the day I’d thought Note to self about a situation I figured I should have already planned for: Pre-find electronics store, don’t park so close to other cars so he can get out comfortably, have a first-aid kit in the car…and like that…all those things had stitched me up on a high wire and this lady was swinging me a temporary trapeze of just normal niceness. My over-emotional acceptance of the cheese sandwich may have scared her a little, but whatever. She was delightful.

My dad got a beer, which, because he had an appointment in a little while, he had to take half of it with him in the car. That meant I had to drive very carefully so as to not have it dump all over him going over bumps. Note to self: Get a damn lid for the beer next time.

The appointment happened. Doctors make him mad. Of course they do. We got a little tense with each other in the car back to his place because from where I sat, his dermatologist had done a great job patching up the thing that needed patching. And she’d taught me how to do it in future. From where he sat, they were just making more trouble for him and he could do all this bandage-changing himself, even though it’s in an awkward place on the side of his head. But still. Yet I think what was really happening was a conversation to do with age. Being fussed over, having his autonomy slip, these are real sticking points as he heads in a direction he’s never been before. For me, finding the line between how to help him without considering him helpless is an ever-moving target. Also letting myself off the shouldn’t-I-have-planned-for-this hook, which to be honest is a many pronged affair, is a work in progress.

So I have all my notes to self posted up in my head. And I know there will be more. In the meantime there are delightful people doing simple things that relieve the moment (I love you, cheese sandwich lady) and funny moments like when he and I talk on the phone to each other while I’m just outside his door. The dance goes on.