On the heels of last week’s exploration of little red wagons (the emotional sort), I spent a solid amount of time these past seven days letting myself think and feel around the things in that wagon. What I kept, what I’m trying to let go of (for sure these things don’t just sink away forever, nor do they need to). I became aware of a couple of ways to look at this whole topic of fierce love. How to begin to parse it from complete emotional crutch-dom (or, in other words, shades of codependency).

First off, ways to become an emotional firefighter. Rather than anticipate a blaze, know what to do when one flares up. Sure, some clear-cutting is necessary but ultimately, once the maintenance is done let things be. (I know this whole reference to fire is possibly too fresh for those of you in areas where fires are literally affecting your lives. I’ll hew toward metaphor.) This is running through my mind because I had a great conversation about the topic this week that opened my eyes to the ways in which loving someone fiercely can also arrest their freedom. (See sad cat photo above.) I want my dad to succeed in his new place. What that looks like to me is completely different from what it looks like to him. As I go daily to set up his pills, a plate for dinner, coax him to get the once-a-week shower done, mix him a drink, set a bottle of water on the side table, turn on the Dodger game, set up the coffee for the morning, I have to wonder: How much of this is about love and comfort and how much is diminishing his autonomous activities? This list of things may have sprung from deep love yet he’s also still capable of doing a portion of the things on that list himself. That is, if he even wants to do them.

For me, the honest look is to parse out what needs to be done because he’s not johnny-on-it (take pills, take shower) and what he wants to do (eat when hungry, drink when thirsty, socialize when lonely, grab clicker when in the mood for TV time). Then, if things are not seeming to go as needed (food, hydration, hygiene), step in and help with that. The amount of gadgetry items I’ve ordered to help with this autonomy has made my Amazon order list look schizophrenic. Along with sunscreen, the majority of products are made for easing the moments of aging: shower chair, walker, giant digital clock, giant-buttoned landline phone that rings so loudly I imagine his neighbors try and answer their own. Oh, and then there’s that hummingbird feeder, which currently hangs on his balcony. Maybe the birds are flocking when we’re not looking? We’re still waiting.

As they arrive, I always have high hopes that they’ll do the trick. The automated pill case that beeps and lights up when it’s time to take a dose. Yeah. No. Failure. The beep just kept on beeping every half hour for, I don’t know, forever, and he ignored it. So thanks, Am-Z, for your easy return policy. Today a digital clock that talks is arriving. There is a function where you can record messages that will serve as reminders for things like pill-taking and food-getting/dining-room going. Dennis is going to use his smooth voice to record them, which I think is great given my connection to being the taskmaster is becoming too close for comfort.

This of course brings me to loving fiercely. Sometimes in the Hey, Dad, How About [fill in the blank with a thing I think needs doing] conversation, I feel a bit of my mom come through. A layer of intensity and panic that serves literally zero people. My dad passes me a look and we both know who the shadow person is in the room. I’m instantly uncomfortable with that. As previously written about, in cleaning out his place I came across so many examples of our bond to each other. How as his daughter and he as my dad, we communicated by encouraging each other in our art and in our lives. We’ve been proud of each other in those ways you do when there’s admiration. Not totally unconditional given he is my dad after all. But the belief in free movement was certainly present. I’m aware that by entering too deeply into the management of his life right now that I risk stripping him of the dignity his remaining autonomy brings. So as I figure out what he can do and where I can help, then let him figure out what he wants to do as I step back, I’m also reminded that the time I’ll be giving myself can go toward my creativity. That’s been simmering back-burner style for a while now. Not gonna lie to you, that actually scares the be-Jeezuz out of me. If I’m honest, I see that focusing on all things dad over the last many months has also been a defense against going fully into my own stuff: creative and otherwise.

So, er, stuff, here I come. Alert to the smell of smoke but not setting any fires.