Becoming My Father's Mother

I am becoming my father's mother. I don't like that role.

Yesterday, I went to Dad's house for a visit and to get the ball rolling to get him an appointment with a new doctor at the Movement Disorder Clinic. There are several pieces of information needed, and I wanted to call his current doctor from his house in case they needed to talk to him instead of me.

So I called the current doctor and asked for Dad's records, tests, and the referral to be faxed over to the new doctor. They were very nice and said they'd be happy to send them. He also needed to get copies of his insurance cards, so we headed to the copy store and then out to lunch at Tumbleweed. That's when my parenting odyssey started, and it didn't hit me until today that so much of what I did for Dad yesterday is so much what I did, and still do, for my own kids today.

As we left his house, I held the door for him while he locked the deadbolt. Then I opened the door for him to get in the front seat of the van and closed it for him once he was in. He has trouble getting the seat belt latched, so after I got in, I helped him get his seat belt on.

I went in and got the copies made and then headed to Tumbleweed. I helped him out of the van and walked with him, slowly, to the restaurant. His nose was runny yesterday, and a clear drop of mucous would hang off the end of it. It liked to gross me out, looking at it. Either he didn't know it was there or didn't have a hankie, but I had to offer him a tissue to get him to wipe his nose. Once our meal arrived and he started eating, he got a big string of cheese hanging off his lip. I kept waiting for him to wipe his mouth, but he didn't, so I had to tell him, "Dad, you have a piece of cheese hanging from your lip."

During our meal, he began to sweat, which is one of the issue with Parkinson's. He had sweat rolling off his cheeks and onto the table. His glasses had drops of sweat on them. I offered him a napkin to wipe his face with, and when he did, his razor stubble from not shaving for two or three days, caught the napkin and little balls of tissue clung to his cheeks. I had to mirror him to get him to wipe his face clean.

Finally watching him trying to cut up his burrito was excruciating. It took every ounce in me NOT to offer to cut it up for him.

He was s-l-o-w yesterday. I told Colleen that it was like he was moving underwater. Everything was delayed. He was coherent, but he took a long time answering questions, walking, eating, and moving in general. It was near impossible to have a conversation with him yesterday.

I kept looking for my dad, and he was nowhere to be found.