Hot Water

“I’m modest,” Dad says in his dressing gown, crossing his arms around his shrugged shoulders when I offer to help him into his bath.

Instead, I listen from down the hall, nervous, as he climbs in and then out.

“I’m not an old man yet!” he says when I tell him he’s on the waitlist for the local elderly bathing facility.

It’s time I put my Warden foot down, and inform him that bath day is now Friday so that Nicol can help him get in and out.

I’ve been avoiding it.

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“Are you okay?” I ask, checking in on him after the hard work of getting dressed is complete.

“I’ll never be okay again,” says Dad rolling his walker out of his room.

The last time I was at the farm, Dad had a cold and fell out of his chair while getting up to go to the doctor.

“I thought you had dropped dead,” said Mum as we leaned over his frail frame tucked into a ball for the drop and roll.

“He can’t be that hurt” said Mum to me, “He’s tickling my leg,” as we picked him up off the floor.

“I’ve made some decisions,” he says as I lay with him on my next visit, “I’m not going to church anymore.”

I ask him why.

“I’m too unsteady on my feet,” he says, “I didn’t fall on my ass this much when I was drinking a bottle of scotch a day.”

I don’t give him a hard time. Hopefully, he’ll feel differently in the morning.

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“Don’t be sad when I go,” he says, “I’ve had a good run.”

My nightmares have returned. In them, Dad is dying and I’m helpless.

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About Morbid Optimist

My name is Katryna Mary Brooke Ormiston. I am 35 years old and after living in Vancouver for a decade, I am returning home to my 81 year old father’s hobby farm on Vancouver Island to care for him in the final stages of his life. This blog is to document my journey, process my experiences along the way and hopefully share and feel connected to a community beyond the three and a half acres I find myself on. A message in a bottle in the cyber-sea.
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5 Responses to Hot Water

  1. Vicki pierobon says:

    Aw, sad, but a time you’ll look back on with gladness that you shared. Thoughts and prayers with you.

    • Thanks Vicki. It’s uncomfortable sharing the hard parts, but it’s part of the process and this blog is meant to capture all of it. Or at least, all of the Dad and I parts of it. Thanks for taking the time to visit me in it 🙂 I hope you are well and that health and happiness surround you. xo

  2. lorraine says:

    very beautiful, i love it that you are doing this!! sad, intense and full of joy!! xo

  3. Touchingly written as always. My mom was 82, almost 83 when she passed (or died or some such harsh word for the experience) and it still goddamned hurt. No matter the age it seems.

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