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Grandpa's Gift

No matter what your religious affiliation or holiday practices may be, December is for many of us a time of giving and receiving. And at the risk of sounding like a Hallmark movie, the holidays have reemphasized for me that the most precious gifts are often intangible and truly priceless.

In May, I was summoned to my father’s house in Northern California. He had been living alone for two years, following the death of my mother, and depression and poor eating habits had placed him on the brink of starvation and kidney failure. As happens to many of us in times of crisis, I went on automatic pilot, doing what needed to be done, urging him to drink glass upon glass of water, coaxing him like a child to eat “just one more bite.” His doctor of several years informed us gently but firmly that he could no longer live alone.

The week I had planned to stay turned into two, and then a month went by. My husband and son, as well as my business partner, understood my need to stay on and covered for me. Still, I felt pressure to return. My father and I ultimately decided that he would come home with me. So in two weeks, we packed up a lifetime of belongings, gave away what we couldn’t take with us, and put his house on the market. I loaded my father onto the plane in a wheelchair, and when we passed over the Sound, my dad peering out the window like an excited kid, I couldn’t help thinking, “Oh my God, what now?”

So, fast-forward past turning our dining room into a bedroom, fast-forward past the parenting tips handed out whether I wanted them or not, fast-forward past my naughty dog’s expensive trip to the vet because my father left his pill case open on the nightstand, fast-forward past the dissatisfaction with a dinner menu that offered no red meat.

Then rewind to the raucous Yahtzee games around the dining table, to my father’s lifted spirits and improving health, to his still-strong arms around me when I was losing it over this or that, and to his advice when I needed it most, whether I wanted it or not.

In September, my dad announced he was ready to “get his own place,” and we found him a spacious apartment in a wonderful assisted-living center no more than 10 minutes away. He has his own space, I have mine. We see each other often, sometimes every day. I take him shopping and we do lunch. And recently, after I broke a bone in my foot, he pushed the grocery cart for me while I limped along beside him. My son likes to hang out with grandpa and watch football games.

I have what I never thought I’d have at this point in my life — a real friendship with my father. That makes me feel grounded in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. And as I see how healthy my dad has become, I am convinced that none of us is meant to be alone.

So whomever you call family, I wish you the warmth of their love and presence, especially during this time of giving and receiving.

Karen Reed-Matthee
Editor and Cofounder

©December 2007 Caliope Publishing Company