1999

It was 1999.  My father was dying of liver cancer.  All possibilities had been exhausted and it was estimated he had just a few weeks to live.  His care had been given over to me, my husband, our daughter, and hospice.  My mother was still alive but her severe handicap precluded much in the way of help with his needs.  One day in the midst of confusion and anxiety we realized that he was not at home.  I became frantic and called on friends to help me find him in our little town.  One of them brought him home within half an hour.  “Daddy, why on earth did you go wandering off like that?” I scolded.  “It was such a beautiful day  just couldn’t resist,” he responded.  And so it went for the next few weeks with me questioning his choices and decisions out of anxiety, concern, and ignorance.  When he was almost completely bedridden, swollen from the steroids, and unable to eat or drink on his own, he insisted on going to the optometrist in town to get new glasses.  I was exasperated.  I threw up my hands in a desperate plea to him.  “Why?  Why?” I stammered ashamed, even as I said the words.  He looked at me and took my hand in his and said, “It’s a privilege to be alive and while we’re here we need to remember that and simply live.  That means doing all of the mundane necessary things as well as what we enjoy.  It’s all—all of it—part of this life.”  I took him to the optometrist.  They rushed his new glasses.  When they arrived he put them on, smiled, and told me,  “Ah, everything is more clear now.”  Yes, yes it is.

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