Today…
is my father’s 90th birthday.
and, in 11 days my mother will celebrate her 90th birthday, too.
well… here we are. he made it.
it’s unbelievable. my father is 90 years old.
some time ago, maybe a year or two ago, after a stay in the hospital and a return home after rehab, i joked with my dad that he was in “tip top shape” and could get back to the business of living to 100. he whispered to me, “i don’t think i’m going to make it.” in hindsight, i’m surprised by his awareness, which was usually lacking as he suffered from parkinson’s dementia and dementia-related anosognosia.
as a child, i watched my father run daily, lift weights, play racquet sports, and bowl. he read at least two fiction novels per week, often more, and kept subscriptions to dozens of health-related, environmental, and scientific magazines, which he consumed diligently. he was active, mentally and physically.
at home, my father did all the yard chores and home maintenance, and he did more than half of the indoor chores, including daily dishwashing, weekly bathroom deep cleaning and laundry, monthly floor scrubbing, regular grocery shopping, minimum. at his mother’s house, he did all of her yard chores and home maintenance, and he did quite a lot of her indoor chores, weekly. he was consistent and responsible, and he didn’t gender work.
for his health, my father embraced herbal supplements and treatments, and recreationally studied nutraceuticals. he paid out-of-pocket for twice-yearly blood tests, which he used to monitor his own levels, and he self-treated accordingly. he was conscientious when it came to information and practice.
my father’s goal was to live 100 years. it was from him that i first heard about autophagy and telomeres. it was from him that i learned about genetic engineering, and later gene editing. it was from my father that i learned the theoretical maximum biological limit for human life was 120 years. and, it was from my father that i developed an interest in the body, its capacity and its limitations, as well as the scope of nature and nurture and the limits of scientific interventions in our lives and on life expectancy.
parkinson’s wasn’t in his plan.
but, my father was exposed to chemicals as a child, breaking thermometers to play with balls of mercury barehanded. he was also exposed to arsenic and lead, metals that we now know impact the neurodevelopment of children in mining communities. in the navy, my father was exposed to more chemicals, including “military mouth” dental amalgams comprised of mercury. as an adult, at work, he used arsenic in his research and development of high-speed bipolar transistors and semiconductors. at home, in our yard and in his mother’s yard, my father used the weed killer paraquat, heavily… for decades, and even after it was banned in dozens of other countries due to toxicity.
so, parkinson’s was “in life’s plan.”
looking back over my father’s timeline, i suspect that he was already showing signs of parkinson’s in his early-50s. i also suspect he was in deep with parkinson’s by the time he was in his early-60s. so, it’s been about 30 years since i’ve last seen my dad. that’s a long time to go without him. i’ve missed him for decades… while trying to make the most of his shell. and, i guess… he’s done what he could with what he had to make the best of his shell, too, even as his capacity faded and his mind failed him.
today, my dad is 90 years old.
my father lived longer than both of his grandfathers, both of his grandmothers, his parents, all of his immediate aunts and uncles, and… so far… his siblings (one down, one to go). he is literally the longest-lived member of three generations, even with parkinson’s and parkinson’s dementia.
so, watching the clock “strike” midnight, in honor of his birthday and his life, i whispered the same things i’ve told him consistently over the last four years and four months of full-time caregiving…
“dad, you did it. you made it to 90. i want you to know… i appreciate you and all the sacrifices you’ve made so i could have more than you had in life. i’m grateful for all you’ve done to make my life easier than yours was. and, i’m thankful for the ways you tended the family to ensure that we made it to adulthood capable of taking care of ourselves. i’m proud of you. i’m proud that you’re my dad. you’re the smartest man i’ve known, the best educated man i’ve known. you were the most handsome dad, and i’d have fought any kid in the neighborhood who disagreed. you were durable and strong, too. you were gentle and kind, conscientious and shy, and i remember that you always thought of others, that you were considerate of others. you always identified need and were willing to jump in with help without expectation of acknowledgement or repayment. you were a good dad, a wonderful man, and you were a decent human. i respect you.
“i’ve said all of these things before, and i hope you’re aware enough to understand what i’m saying now. i want you to know that when it’s your time to go, i’ll handle whatever needs to be done… to wrap up your life, and i’ll make sure mom is taken care of so her needs are covered. i may not be the one who cares for her, but i’ll make sure she’s safe and secure, because she’s your prized relationship. i want you to know that there’s nothing more for you to do here. your job is done. you did good, dad. you did good.
“i also want you to know… that i forgive you for everything i’ve held against you in the past, and for everything i’ve harped on while caring for you. i forgive you for all the hurts i’ve kept close. i forgive you for putting all of this on me, for cursing me out, for hitting me, for hurting me. i forgive you, everything. i hope you’ll forgive me, too, for hurtful things i’ve done and said over this lifetime, and especially in this caregiving. i’m sorry things didn’t go the way you imagined, but maybe you’ll forgive me for what failings you think are mine… because… i did show up for you every day, and i’ve sacrificed all of myself for you. i’ve given you my mental and physical health, my emotional and financial stability, my social outlets and all of my interests. everything… sacrificed for you. i’ve made myself so small… that i disappeared to be your caregiver. so, maybe you’ll consider these and forgive me my trespasses, real and imagined.
“i’m sorry parkinson’s took your mind, degraded your body, erased you as a person. i’m sorry that parkinson’s had its way with you, turning reality into a mirrored funhouse and upending all of your plans.
“meanwhile, happy birthday, dad. i have loved you all my life. wszytkiego najlepszego, tato. kocham cię.”
i’m thinking about this birthday milestone, the memory of my father’s mortality awareness, and the portrait of my own former interpretation of my father. i’m thinking about the irony of my father planning longevity, but being overtaken by disease. i’m thinking about the retrospective timeline of losing him in stages, and how long it’s been since i’ve seen my father, as well as the midnight blessing and tribute to him as he is. i’m thinking about him marking time. i’ve grieved him for so long, and i’ve tried hard to be fair… to preserve his dignity. i wanted so much to “bless” him before losing him, in case this birthday ends up being “the birthday.” and, i wanted to make peace, or at least make meaning… since there’s no thing to gift him. i wanted to gift him with the shape of his life, who he was, what mattered to him, what happened to him, what he gave, and what i need him to know before “the end.”
we have pizza with chocolate cake on the menu for lunch, and we have california burgers with ice cream and chocolate covered pretzels on the menu for dinner. and, i did get my dad one bottle of pabst beer with a side jar of cashews. whether he’s able to eat or just sniff his favorites, we did as best we could to offer him one more birthday celebration. we did the best we could to offer him a special a day.
as monumental as this day is for him, i truly hope it’s the last of his birthdays. i’m ready for him to go.
update: the nurse just left. my father’s twice weekly 20 minute vitals check. she says he’s “stable” and remarked that he’s awake, aware, and humorous today. she says he’s “doing well.” thing is… i’m not. and, i truly do wish this were over, this caregiving. i should have added, “you made it to 90. you can go now. you should go now. would you please go now,” in my little birthday tribute to him this morning.