Remembering My Father

Today is the fourth anniversary of my father's death at age 87. The last time I saw him, he wasn't able to recognize me. I believe that he thought I was a nurse. For health reasons, my mother had to go home early, so that evening, I was the only visitor.

Dad's distress at being alone in a strange hospital room, not remembering why he was there, kept him from sleeping. He felt abandoned and would call out for help. I stood next to the bed so he could see that I was there. His eyes were wide open with anxiety, and he complained of insomnia. I suggested that he might be able to sleep if he closed his eyes and let his body relax. I promised I would stay with him until he fell asleep. So he said, "I'll give it a try," closed his eyes, and dozed off peacefully. Those were his last words to me.

Let Him Eat Cake

What a surprise to find this snapshot in a box of junk I retrieved from my mother's house.

Here are Mom and Dad on their wedding day, sharing their first meal as husband and wife. They are so young! So thin! (Mom weighed less than ninety pounds that day.) They look sweet, but very serious.

Dad is concentrating quite intensely as he bravely confronts the enormous chunk of cake Mom is trying to guide down his gullet.

When I mentioned this picture to Mom, she told me she learned an important lesson that day. When feeding someone, you need to make the bites very, very small.