I’m currently sitting at the desk in my dad’s living room doing my workday. I snuck in at 7.30 this morning and watched the neighborhood come awake, then heard him come awake. Here’s the series of events so far this morning: He turned on the coffee machine, which was primed and ready from when I set it up last night. Then he puttered around the kitchen and I was so happy to know he was getting breakfast (one of the recent concerns is that he’s not really eating). Continuing to work, I glanced into the kitchen and was startled to see him standing next to the stove having placed a porcelain bowl over an open flame, which caused me to attempt calmness as I got up, walked quickly toward him while asking “What’cha doin’?” and removing said bowl from the flame with a hot-pad. This flip of emotion from “ahh” to “EEK” reminded me of the time in 1986, NYC, middle of the night, looking out the rear window of my Lower East Side apartment where the back of four buildings faced each other around a courtyard, and where what seemed to be a late-night cooking party was happening across the way judging from the sound of pots and pans rattling. This made me happy: friends/family noshing together even at 2 a.m. feeling the love while sharing food. Then someone yelled “Fire” and I realized it wasn’t their hearts lit up but their building.

This emotional whiplash has become really familiar over the last little while. Or rather this ability to hold a couple of extreme emotions at the same time. Love and fear. Wonder and worry.

Dad took a tumble (actually two) within the last five days. Here’s what I learned. The Lively device he carries in his pocket works. We found that out not because he pushed the button for help, but because when he went down, he landed on his side where the device was tucked into his pocket, and somehow the thing activated from his 112-lb bodyweight. Thank-GD for his very soft shag carpeting so that he wasn’t broken. As far as I can piece together (based on experience with when the thing has been pushed before by mistake), I think it went a little like this: A voice came out of the little speaker on the thing: “Dean Spencer? Is this an emergency? You’re on a recorded line.” At that point, I imagine my dad either didn’t realize where the voice was coming from or didn’t hear it, so the Lively folks called him. He did not pick up. Because he was on the floor and not anywhere close to the phone. So they called me. Dennis and I headed over. Here’s what was happening inside me as we drove to his place: A cacophony of noise in my head and heart about what we were going to walk in on. A high-pitched frequency that attempted to tune me into some sort of channel that with preparation for what we might find. But I couldn’t land on anything so just worried the hem of my shirt until we pulled into his driveway.

We walked in and found him on the floor in his bedroom, embarrassed but lucid and all in one piece. Still not altogether clear on the chain of events but it seems he was about to lie down and fell. He blamed alcohol. In fact he told us to take all the alcohol out of the house. (Sidenote: The next day, when told about his request, he looked horrified. Asked us not to take the alcohol out of the house.) The buzz in my head flattened a bit into a hum as we checked him for breaks and bruises, then tucked him into bed. Some relief washed into my system, but an edge of awareness pricked me that falling is now happening. As I understand it from people who’ve experienced their parents aging, things like this begin to happen quickly and often. Because he hasn’t been going to the wonderful Silver Sneakers class that for so long kept him balanced and moving…because he just doesn’t get up in the morning in time anymore and/or says “not today” when the topic comes up, his limbs are not getting the kind of movement they used to get.

So, tumbling. When we were here for dinner the next night, he said his leg had fallen asleep, then promptly got up from his chair and fell down. Dennis picked him up, commenting that he falls like a stuntman. As if he’s trained in it. No stiffness, just rolling. So that’s, er, good?! What was going on inside me then? “Shit. Yes, it’s happening.”

I ordered a comforter for the sofa-sleeper that we had delivered and which now sits in his art room. I brought over sheets and clothes. I sit at this desk and work, enjoying the view from this corner of the world. A lot of folks walking all manner of dogs: yippy ones, huge ones, long-haired, short-haired, etc (those are the dogs, the people mostly similar yet here’s a riddle: Why do men here not own long pants? How did cargo shorts with socks become a thing? We’ll save that for another day). There’s an orange tabby running back and forth from the porch across the street to some very important destination a few doors away. A black cat in my dad’s yard stalking some geckos. A Scrub-Jay hopping around in the tree outside the window, I suspect the one and the same we dubbed Sir Scrubs and I gave ink to back in April 2020. There are also trucks. So many trucks. White ones. What’s that about? Why so many white cars? In here it’s very quiet. Like a time casule in a way and I feel like an astronaut testing a new atmosphere. The sounds: My dad’s breathing. In and out deeply, napping in his favorite chair. My fingers click-clacking on this keyboard. The man across the way scraping his grill and the low-rider with the windows open booming bass as it passes by.

I tell myself, Remember This and toggle between a sense of comfort in being here and Wow, that this is what’s now.