Farsightedness
by Patty Leinemann
Home is where you hang your hat. I rolled my eyes. My father had a litany of ‘Dad-isms.’ He imparted this one sometime after high school graduation. With a suitcase in each hand, securely packed with worthless treasures and two of my mother’s dresses for the job search, I boarded the Greyhound Bus from Kelowna to the dead of winter in Edmonton, with no inclination to return. Mom prayed that I’d be back in two weeks. Not my Dad. Twenty-six years later in 2007, Mom was dying and my homecoming garnered no flowers or champagne. My misery-stuffed car didn’t know where to park. My purpose... evaporated.
I lived aimlessly, unsettled. I roamed. I travelled the world. I slept under hundreds of roofs and strolled through multitudes of gardens. Contentment eluded me. Then in 2013, I stumbled into the realm of university as a mature student right here in Kelowna. Serendipity offered a room at the homestead. So I moved my boxes and adapted to stress and study.
With the degree framed and half those boxes collecting dust, I’m still here. With layers of memories in each room and flower bed, this keeper-of-the-land role bears a weight. Mom and Dad’s years of work are hard to preserve. I cling to the childhood love fostered within these walls and fences. I fear that if I give up and let that go, the place will fall apart. The creeping problems of rusted nails and cracked foundations support most of the family’s wish to bulldoze the house. I frantically fix.
My father built this house, his first, when he was twenty-four. Over six decades, the dwelling morphed to adapt with their business, seven children, grandchildren, all ageing. The house contains many mistakes in its unique construction as Dad developed his trade on the property. Looking around, every architectural decision exudes his love of lines. He tweaked and rebuilt things for expansion and efficiency. Me? I was not a handy person. When I hung a picture, that was something. I’ve come a long way since then, but to build a house... well, my hammer-hitting-skills would set us seriously behind schedule.
Since Mom’s death, my father settled into the ‘east wing’ of the house, redesigned for the looming deterioration of his Parkinson’s Disease. He has stoically lived with its slow demise for over fourteen years. Escalating challenges began the day my brother called while I was in class at university. Dad had fallen. The family decided it was time. We moved him into a neighbourhood long-term care facility... only twelve minutes away by foot. The first week was gut-wrenching, notably when I captured the photograph of him attempting to stand. Oh the defeat as he rattled those bed railings. My body rippled with angst when my strong, proud, determined father uttered in panic that he could not do it. We were both shattered. Wordless.
We find ourselves in a churning world. Prior to this pandemic shutdown, I saw Dad four to six days a week, phone calls on the off days. Wrestling with my need for order and cleanliness during visits, I tidied, restocked supplies, stretched through our yoga routine, washed his face and hands, watched our weekly travel show, and handled every friggin’ thing welcoming me at his doorway. The last time I scrubbed the spilled meal replacement drink out of his mini fridge and the carpet, that gnawing question returned. I was on my knees, hands covered in chocolate goop, silently ranting, “What the hell are you doing Patty?” Although the place provides a twenty-four-hour monitored environment, the family must remain vigorous advocates for him. I aimed to ease the challenges of his Parkinson’s with my nitpicking flurry through his space, despite the hidden wisdom that this was not crucial to Dad, yet strangely purposeful for me.
I remain uneasy. Guilt stagnates decisions to step forward in life. It escalates and dissipates daily. I can’t seem to grasp how lucky I am to live and harvest on this half acre while Dad adjusts to a room with the bare essentials: bathroom, bed, television, a shelf filled with his important books, and thumb-tacked pictures patterned on the north wall. Yes, and that mini fridge.
To be honest, thoughts that I end up in long-term care do not make me want to Cha-Cha. My empathetic heart sees isolation, loneliness, boredom, but mainly the unwanted. I plan to Tango past those gates with a red rose clenched between my teeth. Assisted dying, a story for another time, is up for discussion on the dance floor.
Seven months have passed not being able to enter Dad’s facility. This bewildering experience is about the unknowing and unseeing for families with a loved one in long-term care. We must blindly trust what happens inside that building. I fret about the state of his room and belongings, trivial compared to my worry about the separation from family. We wait for news from management. Their few emails are about the logistics of COVID-19 and the further changes and new procedures. This information is significant, but what about him, the so-called family he lives with, us, the outer world? What about all the needs filled previously by the support of our family? Since his admission, my guilt persists whether to bring him back home. My brain reels that I should have tried harder. My sister revealed her concern that if I moved Dad home, they’d be burying me before him. She hammered her point in one accurate blow.
My father is still the patriarch. His will solid. Dad remains in command with evasive conversations about his care within the facility. I sense irritations because of those past visits when I faced puzzling scenarios to remedy. What a journey. We all have grown through his transition into his new home with its life-changing rules, a new cast of community, and the rotating employees calling the shots.
We are fortunate during this pandemic because we can meet Dad at a chain-link fence, weather permitting, ten feet apart, outside the home’s quaint gardens, now beginning to wilt and die from the heat. Each visit the lines of Dad’s skeleton emerge as his body shakes under his billowing clothes. I gulp. I must control the welling tears and my quivering voice. My father has never quite known how to handle this emotional daughter.
The slamming waves of helplessness force me to whisper goodbye. I trudge home, the mind running another marathon pondering my father’s words to be more grateful. I grapple with how to be loving and kind toward myself. I am unsuccessful. Compared to his living situation (I have a tough time calling it home), I have such freedom.
I toss my to-do list. I can’t concentrate. Physical work always gives me a sense of solace. So, I grab my gear and head out to wrap that leaking irrigation line with duct tape.
And then I see it.
It surprises me. Dad is accepting these unprecedented times with far greater grace than most. He has set his hat down, but not at the facility. He is ready for his next home in eternity. I envision he’ll bring his black, frayed chapeau that Mom bought him.
Wow. No tears. I need to sit.
I find shade and lie back on the warm grass. I drift as a breeze delivers the rustle of leaves. A moment of clarity awes me. I owe it to my parents to honour their legacy of place with every shovel and hammer they embraced. I lose the feeling as ants scurry over my toes. I rise. A small, white butterfly floats by. I rigidly pause. I blink, twice, eyebrows lifted. I refocus. Next to the impression of my body in the manicured grass, my bright orange gardening hat rests by my feet. ● This story will be published in the forthcoming Issue No. 3 of Found You Magazine. Subscribe.
Patty Leinemann completed her bachelor’s degree in fine arts at UBC Okanagan after years at a desk; on dance floors, yoga mats, theatre chairs, and winding roads; and being hands-on from deadheading to senior advocacy. She continues to search for what she wants to be when she grows up.