I’m back. It’s been a few days. As usual, I’m going to write quickly without editing — no time.
My father has fallen several times lately. He says he’s just standing (with his walker) and then suddenly finds himself on the floor. What concerns me, mostly, is that his mind is still sharp and memory good so he’s aware of his slow decline … very aware. It hurts to watch him lose one ability after the next. Today, he cannot fold his clothing. Yesterday it was getting his breakfast to the table. Every day he’s unable to do something he was able to do the day before.
I suppose this is how older people die … one day at a time, not all at once. Younger people often die in accidents or wars. As I think of all the men killed in the Ukraine, my only comfort is the notion that they died quickly, though a few have been maimed and left to die a slow death. War is so brutal. Yes, that’s a shallow comment to make, but the horror and pain of war are so great that I turn away from the Internet, refusing to see or read anything that “goes graphic.” Those men are someone else’s sons, husbands or fathers. To respect both the men and the families left behind I do not want to observe their deaths.
I respect my father, too. Yet, observing his slow death cannot be avoided. His needs have to be met, monitored and predicted and his lingering memories of being a vital and strong person have to be checked. He’s not what he was, but he still is …
Remember Terri Schiavo? Someone decided that her lingering death took too long so they pulled the plug. They put a value on her life and death, a date beyond which their patience wore thin. She was starved to death purposely and slowly and denied water until she slowly dehydrated and eventually died.
Such brutality.
My goal is to care for my father with as much love and tenderness as I have until he dies, that is, to faithfully serve him. This is commanded of those of us who are Christian — “honoring parents” isn’t necessarily easy or self-satisfying, but is a duty, and at times, also a blessing. Parents are not a mere inconvenience when they’re old and helpless, but a responsibility that shouldn’t be shucked. I could park my father in a home and walk away from his grumpiness and occasional meanness … but will not. By His grace, I’ll see this to the end, slow as it may be.
The timing of our deaths is not for us to decide. We live until we don’t. Our days are numbered. This means that before we were born, the date and time of our deaths were determined. In the book of Job it reads:
“Since man’s days are determined, the number of his months is under Your control; You have set his limit and he cannot pass it.”
It takes a huge dollop of humility to accept this and submit to the idea that no matter what we do to prolong our lives — exercise, vitamins and other less savory behaviours — our days are numbered. But, because of our limited perspective, we have no idea what that number is! God has determined that my father has lived into his 96th year. Not me. And not my father. So my duty is to patiently wait and serve until my father dies. The fifth commandment in the book of Exodus reads: “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.”
I’m trying to do this. Very imperfectly. Sometimes impatiently.
As I long to resume my own life, I’m helping my father end his.
