It’s My Daughter!

When I was two years old, my first word was “dada”. I never saw him, he was always busy with work. When I was younger, I didn’t put know much about what he did. I just knew that he made sick people better. It was one of his many superpowers, like how he could brighten all of my days with his gentle smile. When I took my first steps at my grandmother’s house, my dad caught me when I inevitably tripped over myself, and he was proud of me, despite my failure.

I was five when I was diagnosed with anxiety. I hated going to sleep, because I lived in fear that since everything went dark, I wouldn’t wake up. He’d bring me stuffed animals every single night, and made a horrible time of day something that I looked forward to. I’d hide behind cabinets and pop out, running into his arms. I knew I was in my house, but there was where I felt truly at home. If I close my eyes, I feel his embrace sometimes.

He’d stay in my room throughout the nights until I fell asleep, even when I was upset, because I’ve never been a delight when I’m tired. He’d tell me stories of his life, how he dated a ballerina in Switzerland and delivered mail across the French coast. He talked about living in California with his best friend, Neil, and his bandmates, George, Bob, and so many more. They became characters in illuminated stories that he recalled to me as if they were yesterday and not fourty years ago.

As I grew older, my dad taught me chords on guitar. The first one was G, because I said it was the prettiest. I learned the lullabies that he lulled me to sleep with and he helped me grow into every talent I harness.

Being 19, I’m in a really weird place in my life. There’s things I need my dad’s help with, like signing the lease on my first college house, classes, and relationship advice. I’ve always been quite independent, but there’s times I need his shoulder to lean on. As I try to, it erupts into an earthquake of a tremor, reminding me of my reality. I’ll never get the normal father-daughter relationship that I wanted because of the diseases that stole it from me.

The doctor’s visit from July 28th, 2021, has taken up so much space in my mind, my books, and my notes app. Finding out my dad had Parkinson’s stole so much from me, but I still never expected he’d fade away while being alive.

He developed dementia, which is a normal aspect of Parkinsonianism. Although it was a natural progression, watching my dad forget how to play his favorite guitar melodies or my birthday just felt wrong. Not in a selfish way, but in a stomach-curdling way. My grief had transcended from being preemptive to current, as I watched his brain disintegrate.

I was on the phone with my dad the other day, which has slowly transitioned from a casual conversation to a mental to-do list that I have to complete multiple times a week, both as a good daughter and for the sake of my sanity.

I start with some kind of warm welcome and anecdote about my week. Something positive (for once!) about my love life, a new friend, a class I’m doing good in, or a good meal. His favorite are reminders that I’ll be home soon.

I ask how he’s doing, which becomes hundreds of miniature questions that I have to weave into small talk, so he doesn’t feel interrogated.

Have you been taking your meds? When is your next doctor’s appointment? With who? How many times have you fallen recently? How is your walking while assisted? Unassisted? Are you using your wheelchair? Can you please start?

I’ll throw in some questions to lighten the mood as well, like

How’s my cat? How’s the dog? Is mom ok? How is Grandma? You should give your mom a call. Did you watch the Jets game? Some 70s rockstar just died, again. Did you hear? How was Jeopardy last night? What movies have you watched recently?

Of course, there’s the business I have to cover as well.

My tuition is due on xyz. How should we pay for it? Has the dog gone to the vet for her rabies shot? Did you pay your credit card bill? How are you doing on groceries? Are your shoes worn out? I can order you a new pair. Have you called your accountant? Have you talked to your lawyer about filing disability? When should we make your will? Do you want me to call my lawyer about becoming your power of attorney?

Then, the personal questions.

Have you changed your clothes today? When was the last time you showered? Have you been making it to the bathroom or are you using the supplies from the hospital? Are any daily tasks harder? I saw they made new spoons and toothbrushes for Parkinson’s patients. How are you eating? Are you eating? Drinking water? Are there any new symptoms? How about the last one we noticed, have you gone to a heart specialist about the water retention and puffiness in your legs?

Last week, we went through all of these as per usual, but with the occasional difficulty. There were the stutters, which I’ve been accustomed to, and the few where I had to pull teeth for a response. After 40 minutes, he paused to exclaim “it’s my daughter!”

I don’t know who he thinks I am on these days anymore, perhaps an operator that makes sure he stays alive or his inner monologue through his iPhone 12. It shocked me at first, that he’d ever not know who I am.

Like in my piece, Perspective, that shaped my fourth upcoming book and first novel, My House of Glass, I did all I could do and changed my perspective. At least he knows who I am today. These days won’t last too much longer.

Your (attempting to be) grateful author,

Sam