The transition is well underway and there will be many sad days to come. I've done my best to try to manage my emotions and at some point they'll come out of me like a golf ball split in two. This also may not happen. When I get out of here, I will get back to work.
Or maybe I will not? I do not know how it will all go, but I do know it will go. I do know that my father's condition is deteriorating and this is a new thing. His confusion is increasing and he's so fragile.
And then there's my mother who will likely live a while longer after him. Will her dwindling memory spare her the sadness of when she's told he's passed on, or will she relive that time over and over again as she asks where he is and demands to see him?
Today I kept her away from my dad for the morning as he wasn't feeling well and needed to be kept alone for a while. I made this choice as I was the caretaker at the time. And I made the choice to not go and see her until it was time to take her upstairs. In all today they had about four hours together, though we had to leave the room while his bedding was changed.
There may come a time when I write about how awful it is to see your father grow old, but I don't feel that emotion. I see him in the hospital bed now installed in his room and I see someone who is going through a natural process. There's no way to really stop it and there is no medicine that will fix or cure him. Maybe that medicine will be there in the future, but I also can't help telling my father that much of that research may disappear for a while due to the end of the country we once knew.
I want to write so much about how my father loved this country, and how he lived out the dream. But, what dream? And for who? His view of America is one where the rich should not be taxed and people should just have to live within their means, and respect those who have earned more money. There's much about this I am sure I will explore in the future as I continue to live my days.
For now I'm just sitting here at the brewery on Big Oak Road where I go when I can. I want a buffer before I go and talk to my sister and deliver a briefing of the last eight days. These eight days for me have been some of the best days of my life as I've been present for the end of my father's life. He's not going to get better, and that's okay.
There's no one to blame. There's nothing that should have been done differently, at least from my perspective. Or rather, I'm not in control of any of it, so there's not much point in endlessly going over scenarios.
And here I am in my life wondering what the next bit will be. Do I stay in Charlottesville or do I go somewhere else in search of adventure and new experiences? I do know that there's no need to make any sort of a decision at this time. I know I'm the only person sitting a bar where I've come to many times now as a way to get a buffer between my parents' space and my sister's space. There are others in the establishment, and I'm glad I was able to get a little information from the bartender about her life. Hearing other people's stories is always preferable to babbling on about mine.
That's not the same as writing to myself. In that case, I am trying to add to the narrative in the hopes of understanding who I am and who I'm trying to be. I'm trying to be the best version of me I can be at a time when many of the values I have tried to emulate are under attack.
This is second quarter of the 21st century is a troublesome one if you're an American, and I do seem to be one of them. I'm born to English parents who left for reasons that aren't worth documenting here. I know that my journalistic identity is directly related to this experience as I was very confused about the place we ended up when I was 6.
My dad is in a dream most of the time, and it's a different type of dream than my mother's. They both are in a cloud, but their gases are different. Neither of them will ever understand me but I've known that my whole life.
And as I sit here at Aristaeus, I wonder: How many times have I been here? I remember coming here with my dad once at the very beginning of his time here, or just before he moved here. I believe he had a milk stout and I'm glad to know he was here with me once. I've never been here with my sister or her husband because we're not really compatible. In a moment or three or seventeen, I'll have to go back to my sister's house to debrief and I don't want to because all I feel when I am around her is a sense that I do not matter.
Sometimes I even believe that, but at this moment I'm sort of just neutral on the matter. I think there's a lot of work I have to do and I have to double down and get to it all.
But not tonight. Tonight is for thinking about nothing for a moment and reminding myself I'll be home in 38 hours or so unless my sister asks me to stay. I would rather plan to come back, even though I do not like the feeling of being a non-person.
On the bright side, today was the 21st day in a row where I went on a walk of significant length.
Can a non-person do that?
Let's see if I make it to 22.
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