On Dec. 21, we took my father to the
emergency room. We found, as we suspected,
that he had had a mild stroke.
The next few days illustrated for me
how fragile life is and the importance of loving relationships. One day, my parents had been getting ready for a
busy Christmas. The next day they were
waiting for test results and doctor’s orders. Thoughts
of Christmas were pushed away, replaced by needles and nurses.
While his brain was still having spasms my father recognized only one person, his
wife, my mother. I could see that her
presence was calming to him. Somehow she
could help him understand the doctors’ and nurses’ questions. He would not consent to anything unless my mother
consented first. Thinking back on those
moments, I am awed by the power of their love for each other.
Shortly after he came home from the
hospital, he made it clear to all of us that he was going to “live” until he
died. He had no intention of waiting to die. I think being “taken care of” was
getting to be too much. That role was not one he ever played, at least not around any of
his children.
Six months later he is still going. His strength and stamina are limited, but he works
until he is tired. My mother keeps and eye on
him. He has developed another skill,
directing. What he can’t do he tells
someone else when and how to do it. We let
him. I have 4 sisters with spouses. So whatever he wants, he gets.
Growing up my parents let us know
that hard work and perseverance would be part of any success that we may enjoy. Daily my father struggles to maneuver through life
with a weak body, a strong mind and an incredible will to live. Recently, he installed a new mailbox and repaired
our neighbor’s mailbox. It took the
better part of an afternoon to get it done. He
always has something in the works. When I see
him struggling I want to help. I don’t,
unless he asks, because usually he turns down any offer of help. I understand that he needs his own successes in
order to build others. I have great
admiration for him. I only hope that I am
made of the same “stuff”.
My children tell me that grandpa
hasn’t changed much since the stroke. He
still “spoils” them. I get in
trouble when he disagrees with my decisions about discipline. He lets them do whatever they want and he slips
them money when I’m not looking. At
times, he gives them advice about strangers and talking to unfamiliar people on the phone. How lucky my children are to have someone like him
who loves and cares about them.
For a short time after my father had
the stroke my thoughts and emotions were in a whirl.
There were so many things to consider. Will
he get better? What do we do if he
doesn’t? What quality of life will my
mother have if he does not get better? The
list goes on and on. Sometimes when he
isn’t his usual self, the questions creep back into my mind. But then I remember that
my father said he wanted to “live” until he died.
I admire him for that attitude. My
doubts disappear.
Terry Cunningham
Summer 2002