I have a generous, funny and loving Father, but I find it very distressing to visit him at his home. Not only is it full of memories of Mom, it is also full of stuff. Stuff overflows the kitchen cupboards, stuff is piled on the desk, stuff keeps the car out of the garage. This stuff keeps Dad trapped in a loop of always being too busy. Too busy to have a walk, too busy to relax, too busy to do important things. And yet he does nothing, but moan. He moans about everything. His garden is a profusion of colour from bedding plants. But if you plant so many plants, they will need dead-heading and watering. You know this, and you make time for this, otherwise, don't plant so many plants.
Yes, I'm grumpy. Yes, I'm intolerant. No, there isn't anything I can do to change this. I have to sit back and wait for the catastrophe. The forgetful accident, the con man, the trip or fall, which could take away his independence.
There is something else bothering me about Dad's house. The view in my rear view mirror as I drove away last night, of Dad and a woman who is not my Mother, standing hand in hand at the door, waving us good-bye. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, sits uneasy this morning, as I try to get my thoughts under control.
It is almost three years since my Mother died, cruelly robbed of her well deserved retirement, by a cancer caused by a social scourge, a smoking addiction started more than 50 years ago. Three years, during which not a day goes by without thinking of her, and wishing she was still here.
So, forgive me, Father, that I cannot embrace your lifestyle at this time, but know that I love you and will be there for you, when you need me.