Wash rinse repeat

In a couple of hours I have to go downtown and pick up my father from Penn Station. Simple enough thing. Urban adult children pick up their aging parents coming from more rural areas all hours of the day in this great country of hours. At this very minute there are strained looking middle aged people forcing them selves to smile in every airport, Greyhound depot and Amtrak station in every city of this nation. I will just be one of the masses.

I just wish.......I don't know. After all that has happened in the last couple of years with his health, why does this get to me so much? It's not like this is some big shock, like seeing someone after they have had a stroke. He will be much what he was last month, which was much like the one before that. It's just like there is this line graph across his far head that charts the quality of his life. And the line goes steadily down further and further. Last year his hope was that he would be able to play a round of golf again. Now what he dreams of is to be able to some day drive himself into the town over and take part of the afternoon to just walk around the good bookstore. What kind of life is that? To want such a simple pleasure and know it may never happen. It's like when my grandmother was dying. One of the last clear things she said was, " I miss bacon." Somehow that kills me more than I can say.

Part of this sadness is the remarkable difference between who he was physically when I was growing up compared to who I am now. My mother and aunt are in crazy ridiculous good shape for their ages. My mother takes yoga and has balance skills I come no where close to. She was proud to tell me that last month on a trip to Italy with her friends, she was the only one her age who was hiking up those Carlioni hills. When I call my aunt, it is not unusual for her to chirp about how she is off to her stretching class, or is just back from the pool. So while they are older, get tired more easily, wear down faster, they are still them . Dad isn't.

While I know I come by my deep connection to my inner sloth from my dad, he was a physical man. He was a jock , played basketball in college. That was in his wiring. And while he worked on the writing ,production, administrative end of things, his work was with athletes. There was a deep mutual respect between those he covered because he knew what it was to be skilled . This wasn't vacant lot, hanging with the famous boys and girls,kissing ass ,TV commentator crap.He understood what true body based gifts looked like.

He was big. He has a crappy diet,bad exercise habits. Been overweight most of his life. But there was also real strength. Some of my happiest early childhood memories involve his throwing me on his shoulders. it felt so safe and exciting way up there. When we moved to the country he fell immediately in love with his property. He was the most remarkable gardener for some one who never came near a seed packet till well into middle age.He could spend whole weekend digging and weeding and hacking away. I have all these flashing images. Him with the mover, the shovel, the axe. Sweating, controlling,creating. That man is all gone now. I miss him.

Now what is left is this shrunken physical shell.I always have to keep my anxiety level in check. Will he get off the train all right? Will he make it up the stairs by himself? Will some Son of a bitch mow into him because he isn't going fast enough?Will he feel safe enough in my home?In the bathroom, in his bed?Will the world respect his age and needs?

I will be so relieved when my Mom shows up tomorrow. The knot in my left shoulder may just magically go away.