Precious home

 

I realize how lucky I am to come home to the house I grew up in.

Lucky to come home to the parents who raised me. Lucky to still have a relationship with them. So many of my compatriots have not been so fortunate. 

My dad, Charlie, is 89 now; Mom, Loraine, is 81. The biggest changes are definitely with Dad. He is no longer the vital, hard-working guy who would scramble out of the house the moment we arrived to clean our vehicle. He's no longer the guy who could be seen 20 feet up on the ladder painting the house. His world has shrunk and is focused on getting through the day without falling. He moves slowly and cautiously and still enjoys sitting outside on a plastic lawn chair facing the sun. A sun seeker he has always been. My older brother Keith is similar in that regard.

When he is awake and aware he has a vocalization that wasn't there before. It might be perceived as the sound one makes when constantly in pain, though I don't assume that's what it is. It's taken some time to get familiar and comfortable with it. This is his new reality.

It is very hard to have a conversation with Dad now. His hearing is minimal at best. Neighbours passing by might think that Mom is yelling at him, when in fact, she is just trying to communicate. Rather than working hard to engage in conversation, I am trying just to be present. When something strikes him, he speaks up clear as day and is more mentally prepared for the line of conversation that will follow. The combination of reading lips and listening intently makes it easier to have short back and forth exchanges.

Through his life, Charlie became known for a lot of things. He was an avid volunteer in the community and at the church. He loved cleaning the cars of visiting family members. He loved to paint, though not in the way I do. Give him a can of garage sale paint and he'd find a place to use it. A visiting Charlie with a paint brush needed to be monitored carefully, lest paint get applied in places it shouldn't.

Watching him now, it is clear he is still a creature of habit and does things that may not make sense to us, but that we accept all the same. Sitting at the kitchen table, he has taken to using a dish towel as a placemat. He also puts on an apron before eating, though he rarely misses his mouth or makes a mess. 

Mom is the care-giver now. Her health allows her to watch over dad and make sure he has everything he needs to carry on. She is incredibly kind, gentle, and astonishingly patient.

"It's no fun getting old," he said shortly after I arrived, a statement that my grandfather (his father) would often make in his later years.

Mom has lined up some tasks for me, more to ensure that I don't get bored than anything else. I started by taking down the basketball backboard that I installed some 40 years ago. The hoop reached its end when a tree fell during a storm a few weeks ago. It seemed fitting that I would be the one to bring it down four decades after I put it up.

This trip is not just about catching up with family, apparently it is also about catching up on sleep. Two nights in a row I have actually slept through the night without needing to get up to snack or use the bathroom. My back is a little sore from being horizontal for so long, but I'll take that small discomfort for the extra sleep.

"You're not drinking as much as you do at home," said Mom.

She's absolutely right. To avoid having to get up and use an unfamiliar bathroom, I sip small glasses of water rather than gulping big ones. 

The light is soft this morning. It's windy, too. A weather change is coming. I can feel it, as can the chatty crows I encounter on my two block walk to the Co-op Gas Bar for a coffee. 

"I'm sure glad you're open on a Sunday," I say to the attendant. 

"We're open every day," he replies.

I prefer to support the Kamsack coffee economy than brew a large pot of coffee at Mom and Dad's. It also gives me an excuse to go for a walk and see the town of my youth as it is today, comparing it to what I remember from 40 years ago.