I’ve had a couple of not-my-finest-hour moments in the last few weeks. Both of them with my dad. Both reminders that when I react to what’s in front of me reflexively, no matter how many (feels like millions) hours I’ve spent meditating or thinking on the nature of intention and/or concentrating on my breath, the situation can go sideways very quickly. The first happened as we were on our way into Silver Sneakers class and I’d reminded him to grab his cane and when he resisted—as happens on the regular, by which I mean always—stating that he didn’t really think he needed it, I snapped and said, “Yes, you need it because you’re an old man.” Those last four words hung in the air like noxious fumes. Fuck, I thought, that was mean. I apologized. He said, “no problem. I am old,” then carried on…cane in hand. I felt bad for the rest of the day (still do, actually. The gurgle in my stomach as I wrote about it is noisy). It was no consolation whatsoever knowing he would not remember what I’d said an hour later. In fact, when I apologized again, he did not know what I was talking about, although I do think a residue of emotion is left behind from a moment like that. Just as when that noxious fume passes, your eyes still sting.

The second emotionally toxic event happened later in the week, before a lunch with his golf buddies. We had discussed that morning how I was going to pick him up at his place. Upon arrival, I found his car gone. When I went to the restaurant, I found him there already. He was surprised to see me and said he was glad I could make it. I, in turn, said, “Dad, a couple of hours ago we talked about me picking you up.” As soon as I said it, I knew it had been a mistake to bring it up. A cloud passed over his face that held scared shitless. He had no memory of our conversation. I mean, I was scared by it as well, although this slippage is very much how he rolls now. And my bringing it up did nothing except to upset and also embarrass him in front of his friends. In that moment I realized there was no plausible reason for me to have brought it up. I don’t want him to feel bad, obviously. And it’s not his fault he can’t remember. Not willful ignorance or inattention. Nor is this Alzheimer’s. This is a 96-year-old memory bank that has begun to cash out its vaults. Or, as David Sedaris says in his brilliant essay, Happy-Go-Lucky (story collection of the same name) about his dad’s journey into his nineties “… he’s what used to be called ‘soft in the head.'” Dennis’s pops is also in this headspace and I watch (& learn) how his kids are around him. At the beginning there were a few “dad, don’t you remember”s, then it became clear that no, he didn’t and therefore they all need to start the moment from jump. A good friend referred to these situations (which she went through with a parent) as acting exercises. And, yes, that all feels true. The useful exercise is to be in the moment of what my dad says as if it’s new. Because it is.

This isn’t a passive act. I absolutely do have my freak-the-fuck outs around him still driving and living on his own. He’s not interested in giving up either the keys to his car or his house, nor is he interested in me being a chauffeur or roommate, even though I’ve come up with some sly ways to do both every once in a while. (Acting.) All this to say it brings my ego into check. I don’t need to be right or prove a point (“Yes, we discussed this!”). I do need to pay attention. Right now him being safe and comfortable are the main drivers although often I’m not sure how those two things work together. Or what I need to do to make sure they’re happening. When to let go, when to close in.

Not having kids, this is my first time on the slippery slope of age-related give and take. Managing someone you love’s raw reactions, including anger, is quite a thing. Currently, I’m watching Better Things (complicated single mom raising three daughters. Lots of mistakes on all sides. very dark-but-so-brilliant humor. loving it) and realizing emotions and age. How as a parent of kids from baby to teenage, logic doesn’t really matter. Feelings are EVERYWHERE, all the time. And that’s just the way it is. Transferring that to my current situation, I’m coming to understand that the bread on both sides of this life sandwich has the same porous element. Unless it’s open-faced (losing someone young), the sense of being bookended by squishy feelings is a thing, somewhere in the middle all the elements become piled on, stacked, messy, but contained. It’s wild.

Right now, my dad lands in his anger all the time—something that’s always been a current running underneath but has never been obviously present, in fact, most folx believe him to be a very chill dude—that he will mutter or snap with no filter. On some level, it seems freeing when I can step back and observe. I’ve also begun to not take it personally or apologize to anyone for it.

Expressed anger. Gak, my emotional core that feels it’s too scary to entertain since it can only destroy: friendships, relationships, all of life. Yet I also know that’s not at all true. The author Emma Straub, whose newsletter I adore, wrote a recent one about anger after losing her father. It’s raw.

I watch my dad be angry and I get it. Or at least I think I do. I ascribe feelings of frustration and fear as motivation. And I’m not going anywhere as he expresses it.

I’m also working on giving myself some grace around my mistakes in communication. I will continue to have not-my-finest-hours although hopefully not the same ones. That keeps it interesting. Forward, backward, sideways, do-si-do.