At 91, my dad still carries himself like a man ten years younger. His clothing always wrinkle-free, (he never would wear sweat pants in public), and he routinely goes to the barber for his handsome white hair.  As children, he and mom (mostly mom) would look us over, top to bottom anytime we were headed out the door to some event, making sure we had no stray threads, lint, rips, etc. He walks with quiet confidence, although more cautiously, with a slower gait and a bit of a limp. His memory has always amazed us all.  He can carry a story about his childhood, past jobs, friends, family, vacations, music trivia. He is a treasured gem, and he relishes all the holidays, pool parties, barbecues and various celebrations in our family as much as we cherish him.

Then came the fall. A broken hip and wrist. Just because of a cramp in his leg causing him to jump out of his recliner, losing his balance on the slippery hardwood floor. He had his cell phone in his pocket. Apparently, in his infinite wisdom, he had been carrying it on his person the past months as a precautionary act.

When we discovered him on the floor in pain, he knew he had broken bones. While my sister called for an ambulance, he said to me “Well that’s it, I guess I’m going into the home now”, as a single tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. “Might as well just shoot me.”

We had many twilight zone moments at the beginning, spending hours in the ER and ICU, helicopter and ambulance rides back-and-forth from Memorial and Barnes hospitals with major worrisome setbacks of pneumonia and sepsis. The entire time his optimistic spirit would not allow him to give up.

Rehabilitation followed, then exhaustion, then something far crueler—his appetite disappearing along with pieces of himself. The man who once relished hearty meals now pushed food around a tray with weakened hands. He chews on a piece of meat for a minute and still can’t bring himself to swallow it. He wants to be home. That is his goal.

His clothes hang as loose as his thin skin. His shoulders are sparrow narrow. His legs have become his enemies as he struggles to stand.  The only thing that remains the same are his bright blue eyes, however they have darkened like an April storm, as he drifts somewhere farther away each week.

And still, somehow, he worries about how he looks. He catches his reflection and laughs softly, embarrassed by the state of his unshaven face, hair in need of a cut, or wrinkled hospital gown. That hurts almost more than the decline itself. He spent his whole life taking pride in who he was, and now even dignity feels difficult to hold onto.

I remain encouraged, but deep down I see the end is nearing. I try to squelch those thoughts, but they continually skim the surface. And he knows it too.  It is heart wrenching watching the first man I ever loved, whose empathic personality protected my feelings as a child, whose sage wisdom came to my aid with advice as a teen, (most of which I accepted with snarky rolling eyes), and has been a constant my entire adult life, collapse into frailty.

The assisted living center is kind, but it is impossible not to notice the quiet surrender that lives there. Walkers line the hallways. Television voices echo from half-open doors. My father takes prides in the 150 steps he can complete in physical therapy or riding a little foot bicycle in the gym at the assisted living center. Trimming his own fingernails feels like a big win.

He is hopeful that once he gets back home, he will be happier when back to his normal routine, will be able to walk on his own in a few months. However, he’s also a realist, and he knows he will never be as strong again.

As much discomfort and worry he has been dealing with, he still asks about my day. And then the conversation goes back to the “slop” they serve at the care center, how he “eats just enough to stay alive”.   Even the food we bring in from our homes or restaurants does not taste good to him.  His potassium has dropped dangerously low so he was readmitted to hospital for infusions.

24/7 in a hospital bed for two months makes the mind wander, and as a problem solver, he has had much time to reflect. The other day he made the decision. He said he does not want to go back to the house he lived in for 56 years, saying “If I go back there, it will just be harder for me to leave again.”  As he said those words, and accepted his fate, his sentimental eyes welled up. It broke my heart to hear those words, to witness the beginning of the loss of his independence. All I could do was tell him it was a smart choice as I kissed the top of his head.

Each time I sit with him, as we are both transitioning his new lifestyle in his new studio apartment at The Colonnades, I am mourning the father I miss while loving the man who remains. And somewhere between grief and gratitude, I am learning that even as the body fails, love does not.

Donna Heatherly