Operation Move Dad To Seattle

My 86 year old father answered the door of his townhouse wearing his signature t-shirt and tighty-whities. I said, “Dad! Formal attire? What’s the occasion?” trying to sound chipper even though I was exhausted from my 8-hour Seattle to Chattanooga flight.

Dad chuckled. I dropped my bags and wrapped my arms around him, enveloping him like a human blanket. His body was frail, bony against mine. He clapped my back twice before trying to weasel away from me. He never was much of a hugger. I held on for an extra second, leaned down, and kissed the top of his scalp through thin gray hair.

I’d come on account of the inguinal hernia surgery he had scheduled for the following morning. It would be a routine procedure, but the doctor warned Dad he’d need two weeks of rest after the operation and should have someone stay with him for a while. Dad balked at this suggestion to me over the phone a week earlier. He didn’t need any help by God. The last thing he wanted was for me to fly across the country for something silly like this. After 30 minutes of cajoling, convincing, and insisting, I wore him down.

“Fine,” he said. “Come on out here if it’ll make you feel better.”

Now, shutting the door behind us and walking into the foyer, I was glad it was me at Dad’s place. My older brother, Robert, would’ve rather been there. But the fact that he lived in Germany and worked for the FBI made it unreasonable. I had Dad all to myself. I relished feeling like I was the one he could count on.

“Alright, Dad, let’s see what you’ve got going on down there with this hernia of yours.”

“Oh, you want to see, huh?”

Without missing a beat, he yanked his undies down to his knees, little-kid style. The move caught me off guard. I struggled to keep a straight face because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

I looked down, and indeed, Dad had a nasty bulge in his groin that demanded medical attention. But that’s not what really caught my eye. My old father had as fine a penis as I’d ever seen. It was surprisingly robust for a man of his stature and with a healthy complexion, too. I dare say it was the wang of a man twenty years his junior. But I’m no expert. Magnificent, I said on the inside. On the outside, I said, “Yeah, Dad. I’m glad you’re gonna have that taken care of.”

LOVE ISN’T PRETTY
After his surgery, Dad was woozy in his hospital recovery room. I sat him up on the edge of the bed. His skinny legs dangled above the floor. It felt intimate, just the two of us there in that cold, quiet room. I reached inside a blue plastic bag containing Dad’s belongings, took out a pair of his underwear, stuck Dad’s feet through the holes, and pulled them up. Dad said, “It wasn’t long ago I was dressing you like this.”

It hit me how right he was. I would be the one holding him now. I would do the comforting, the watching over, the protecting. A contented smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Oh, how I’d yearned for Dad to trust me the way he was doing now. I liked that he needed me.

The day after surgery, Dad was agitated since he couldn’t poop. I called the doctor, and he suggested I give my father an enema. “Uh, OK,” I said. I drove to a CVS, picked up a kit, returned to Dad’s place, and watched a few YouTube videos to show me how it was done.

“Alright, Dad,” I finally said. “You ready for me to show you who’s boss?” He laughed and said he was. He lay down on his bed, rolled to his side, and pulled his pants down.

“Here we go.”

I stuck the plastic bottle in his ass, squeezed it, and thought to myself, “Boy, oh, boy. Love sure ain’t pretty.”

And it really isn’t. Love is a raw, untidy thing. 

MANLY MAN
Growing up, Dad and I hadn’t been close. He was from a generation that saw any hint of emotional expressiveness as unmanly and shameful. While I understand this kind of social programming today, I had no idea what to make of Dad’s stoicism, remoteness, and self-reliance as a boy. I ached to be close to him. I internalized the distance, felt Dad didn’t like me, wondered if there was something wrong with me.

Now, staying with Dad as he recovered, he opened up to me. He recalled his successes, his failures, his regrets.

I’d long known his height had been a tender spot with him. But he’d hidden the full extent of how it’d shaped him. On his back porch, Dad looked off into the middle distance and spoke about the short man’s plight in a similar way I’ve heard black guys talk about being black. Being the smallest man in a room isn’t something that goes away. It’s never not an issue. He told stories of insults, jokes, taunts, discrimination, losing jobs to taller men. It’s a fact that most CEO’s are over 6 feet tall, so his complaints are rooted in something real. It’s just not a bias that gets a lot of airtime. Dad told me that my height is a privilege I’ve taken for granted.

To encourage him, I explained that he’d been a larger than life figure for me. He was always the smartest guy in any room: quick to read a situation, insightful, and ready to act, full of energy, in command. “Dad,” I said. “I don’t think this world could’ve handled a bigger version of you.”

I disagreed that his height held him back. If anything, it probably helped him. He felt compelled to work twice as hard as his competitors. Wasn’t that why he made it to higher ranks of an international corporation? He’d had something to overcome, something to prove?

Did I know any man with a better rags-to-riches story than him? The way he grew up on a small farm in North Carolina, boot-strapped his way out of there and up a mighty tall ladder.

In most of my childhood memories of him, Dad is wearing a business suit, leaving for Colgate Palmolive’s headquarters in New York City, or returning from his life on the road. Even during his downtime, he remained a hummingbird of a man, alway busy producing or working on something.

FOUR LETTER WORD
Again and again, Dad thanked me for being there with him. It was too much. At one point, I told him, “Dad, listen, you need to relax. Accepting help is very tough for you. But, it’s not a dirty word, you know.” He hung his head and nodded.

I imagined his position. Here was a man that had spent his entire life trying not to feel small. His feverish scraping up the hierarchy, his quest to build wealth, his perfectionism – all shielded him against feeling weak. Now, I saw the hard reality that no matter who you are or how beautiful you were, or how successful you’ve been, or how big your bank account is – old age is going to make you feel small.

One morning, Dad announced, “I’m going to make this worth your while, Stephen. You’ll see. I’m going to pay you for your time here.”

Pay me? The idea stung, but I tried not to show it. I felt like he was stealing my chance to be generous. Why couldn’t he just let me be a decent son to him?

“Dad, you keep trying to turn this into a transaction, and it’s not. Don’t you get it? I want to be here. I get to be here. I get to help you.”

And that only made him squirm all the more.

A few hours passed, and he couldn’t help but make it weird again with effusive gratitude. Then I had to argue my case against him like an attorney.

EXHIBIT A - “Dad, the timing is perfect for me right now. I’m freelancing. I’ve got more flexibility than I’ve had in my life. The kids are all grown and getting on with their lives. This is the best thing I can be doing right now. Besides, you’ve helped me so much over the years. I’m thrilled to be able to help you a little.”

EXHIBIT B - “Dad, do you remember how you took care of Mama when you realized she had Alzheimer’s? You rose to the occasion. Putting her in that that nursing home, moving around the corner from her, visiting her every day – that was a good thing. You did her right after all the mistakes you made in your marriage. I think you needed that. Maybe I need this time with you.”

EXHIBIT C - Who’d been there for me over the last 25 years whenever I faced a layoff in my fickle advertising career? Hadn’t it been him, who talked me off the ledge? Him who’d said: “Stephen, if worse came to worse, I could cover any expenses you’ve got indefinitely. Relax. You’ve got an ace in the hole, son. Remember that. You’ve got an ace in the hole.”

I put both hands on Dad’s shoulders and said, “Dad, look at me. I want to be your ace in the hole now.”

GRASPING
Over the previous year, my brother and I noticed that connecting with Dad on our weekly Skype sessions was becoming difficult.

“Goddam this stupid computer,” Dad would sputter, almost on the verge of tears, after not being able to find the right virtual buttons. “Why do they have to keep moving everything around all the time? I just want to throw this thing out the window.”

It was hard seeing him get so puzzled and exasperated over things that had been so simple for him just a year ago. He was also starting to repeat statements he made five minutes ago, just the way Mama did before we all realized she had Alzheimer’s.

My brother and I agreed Dad’s faculties were diminishing. We worked together to sell Dad on the idea of moving out to be near me in Seattle. To his credit, Dad had been receptive to the idea.

Staying at Dad’s, I saw a new urgency in the situation. When his mind would slip, tangle, and turn him around, he would curse himself. “Goddamit, I’m losing my mind.”

I’d try to soothe him like a child. “It’s OK, Dad”; “Slow down”; “We all forget sometimes.”

But it was clear to both of us that we couldn’t wait forever to move him out near us. We needed to do it now.

“Stephen, I don’t like what’s happening with me,” he said at his kitchen table, small pools forming on his lower eye-lids and voice cracking. “I can tell my brain’s slowing down. I’m not the man I was a year ago. And I don’t know if I’ll be here a year from now.”

I rubbed his back. “I know, Dad.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

I gleaned that part of the reason he was willing to leave Chattanooga was shame over his decline. He’d noticed his dwindling abilities, but more importantly, he’d noticed other people noticing it. He was no longer asked to lead in his Hiking Club; no longer invited to deliver Meals on Wheels. I wondered what else people had said to him. The idea of a fresh start, where no one could compare him with what he used to be, appealed to him.

Dad and I made a plan. After his recovery and an OK from his doctor, we’d fly back to Seattle together. We’d visit a senior living facility around the corner from me. If he liked it, we’d reserve an apartment, fly back to Chattanooga, and move him out to Seattle permanently. 

WHISTLING DAD
It felt good carrying Dad’s bags, leading him through crowded Atlanta International Airport to catch our connecting flight to Seattle. I imagined I was an NFL blocker carving a wake behind me big enough for Dad to glide through un-harmed. It was difficult for him to keep up with me. When we reached our gate, I could’ve spiked my carry-on bag I was so happy.

At our home on Mercer Island, Dad was wary of our two overly-friendly Pitbulls. “Get down, get down!” he scolded them as they jumped on him. But after a few days, I’d catch him baby-talking to them as he rubbed their bellies.

Touring Dad’s potential new apartment building, two blocks away, I was a nervous wreck. I worried he might not like it, and then what would we do? Fly him back to Chattanooga and leave him there alone? I hated the thought of it. Luckily, Dad liked the apartment. He put some money down, and our plan was in action.

Dad seemed to lighten up at this resolution. I’d hear him whistling in our guest room like a happy songbird. It was a sound I often heard as a child on Saturday mornings when Dad would wake up before us and tend to our yard – his pride and joy. I remember hearing his whistling outside my window mixed with the sound of a lawnmower, or edger, or electric hedge clippers. Whistling Dad meant Happy Dad. Whistling Dad was easily approachable and likely to throw the ball with me or wrestle a little.

STRONG MAN
A week later, we were back in Chattanooga. I jumped into action, loading Dad’s remaining possessions into a 16X12 foot cargo container. Thankfully, he’d purged much of the furniture he and Mama had accumulated over the years after she died from Alzheimer’s 5 years ago.

Of course, Dad felt useless watching me do all the heavy lifting. He wanted to help, but he was in the way. I gave him a few small boxes to carry like I would’ve done with one of my sons when they were little, just to make him feel like he was contributing.

As a child, my brother and I thought Dad was the strongest man in the world, able to perform feats of strength that we still talk about.

There was the time my brother goofed-up a jump on my yellow Schwinn Lemon Peeler and bent the front forks. We’d used sledgehammers, pliers, and a vice to try and straighten them. When Dad returned home from a business trip, he found my brother and me in the driveway sweating over the bike and asked what was up. We explained the situation. Dad put down his briefcase, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He got down on one knee, grabbed the forks, and with great concentration, bent the forks back in their proper shape. My brother and I gaped at him in awe. It was like watching the Six Million Dollar Man. We could practically hear the sound effects: “ch-ch-ch-ch-ch- ch-ch-ch.”

“Wow, Dad! How’d you do that?”

Dad laughed. He stood up, tousled our hair, walked away like it was nothing.

Then there was the time my brother and I – along with three other friends – couldn’t lift our garage door when it was stuck. Dad pulled in the driveway after work, still wearing his suit, and heaved up the door alone. The five of us boys let out a collective, “Wooooah!”

Now, moving furniture out of Dad’s townhouse, he marveled at the way I hauled the heavy furniture around.

“My God, Stephen! How can you lift that by yourself? I won’t forgive myself if you get hurt.”

“It’s no problem, Dad. I pay gyms plenty of money to lift heavy objects and put them down again. It’s my thing. I’m just getting a workout.”

“God, I couldn’t do that on my best day. You’re like Charles Atlas.”

I swelled with pride as I felt him watching me lift the big boxes. I liked showing off for him in the same way I used to love showing off for my three sons. And I couldn’t help but think that now, at 48, I was a better father to my Dad than I had been to my own boys. Oh, how they would’ve benefitted from my middle-aged patience.

Dad reads more than any person I know. He seems happy with his new library.

SETTLED
Two days ago, the sale of Dad’s townhome was completed. It was the last big piece of the move puzzle. So, after almost two months of solid effort, Dad is officially settled in his new place around the corner from us. I stop by to see him whenever I want, or whenever he has an issue, which is turning out to be every other day.

Dad could’ve balked at the idea of moving to Seattle at the age of 86, could’ve dug his heels in and said, “I’m not going anywhere. Chattanooga is my home, by God.” Plenty of aging adults make a final stand as a way of asserting their autonomy or even spiting their adult children. I’m thankful Dad made the move easy for me.

He seems content where he is now. He socializes with people. He’s made a few friends. His voice has grown stronger now that he’s exercising his vocal cords regularly.

I imagine that in time, the honeymoon period will likely wear off. Dad might slip into griping about his new digs and blame me for moving him out here. I hope not, but it’s a possible scenario. More probable is that Dad will continue to sink little by little into dementia over the next few years and someday forget who I am.

But whatever happens, I plan to be with him, in the pocket, until the end. I’m grateful he is near, grateful for the time we’ve had.

Dad is quick to tell me he’s lucky to have a son like me.

I tell him I’m lucky to have a father like him.