Perspective

I saw a TikTok of a hospice nurse who talked about running out of the house and feeling ashamed that her living room was messy and covered with toys. When she arrived at work, she was immediately taken aback when her first patient of the day was a small child, and her parents were devastated that she stopped playing with her toys. She felt embarrassed that she cared about the mess instead of being grateful her children could still play. It honestly changed my perspective on life. 

My dad is the best man anyone could ever have the privilege of meeting. He spent the majority of the 80s in California to be a rockstar, and then got his doctorate in Chiropractic by 1994. He would take the clothes off of his back for anyone and he took stray animals off the side of the road, spending hours looking for a rescue. The love in his heart was limitless, and he left a little wherever he went. Imagine my luck, as the baby he waited his entire life for. 

My dad’s approval was always my biggest motivation, but never hard to come by. He applauded my 60s in high school chemistry despite his doctorate, because he remembered struggling too. He knew I dealt with anxiety my entire life, and would do little things to cheer up the hardest parts of the day for me. Bed time was a big one, so he’d play me songs on his guitar and tell me stories about his life. He built me a dollhouse replicating my childhood home when we couldn’t afford a Barbie Dreamhouse for Christmas. My life was difficult growing up for a multitude of reasons, but I never failed to feel cherished because of the unwavering love of my dad. He was easily my best friend and favorite person ever, and my favorite parts of myself are pieces of him instilled in me. I take pride in every aspect in which I share with my dad. To know my dad is to love him. He couldn’t kill a fly and he’ll bend over backwards to help anyone. He truly is the sweetest thing this world has to offer, so I understand the appeal that any higher power would see in wanting him to themself. 

In March of 2020, his unwavering dedication to his patients led to him getting COVID. We all assumed the worst as a 60 year old high risk man, but when he walked out of our designated quarantine room, I cried for the first time in years. The first thing he said was “my legs feel funny”, and being my father’s sarcastic and humorous daughter, I yelled at him to “shut the f*ck” up within sobs, because I was grateful I wouldn’t have to lose my best friend. He insisted something was wrong, so he spent months purchasing his own MRI appointments and learning how to read the scans of his brain. 

When I was fourteen, I sat in the waiting room of a doctor’s office when they told me that my dad’s brain began the process of deteriorating and failing him. I could do nothing but cry alone for months. His case was completely under exaggerated to me- I was under the impression that his body would fail, and he’d remain sharp, witty, sarcastic, intelligent, and the same as he was, just in a wheelchair.  I had no issue pushing my dad around in a wheelchair because I took pride in him being my dad and best friend, regardless of how he looked. Although it is difficult to watch my dad struggle, I never anticipated everything this disease would take from us.

It started with his sweet, tenor voice. It was eroded by a stutter that haunted me in drive thru’s and important conversations and frustrated me. Although I know my dad well enough to talk over him during a bad stutter and finish his sentences, it was an aspect that I didn’t expect, let alone didn’t anticipate getting worse. After that, his hands failed him. Typical, but it stole his ability to play his sweet guitar rhythms that lulled me to sleep for the first decade of my life.  I bought him special attachments and new guitars with different strings and spent hours with him in attempts to hear the sounds of my childhood, perhaps for one last time, but to no avail. I remembered saying “my dad’s playing guitar again, isn’t he?” at every family gathering, and I wished nothing more than to transport back and record his setlist. “Little Pink Houses”, John Mellancamp, “Dear Prudence”, The Beatles, “Me and Julio”, Paul Simon, “American Pie”, Don McLean, “Jack and Diane”, John Mellancamp, “American Girl”, Tom Petty, “Hotel California”, the Eagles, “Blackbird”, the Beatles, all of Cat Steven’s discography and countless more songs of the same genre that I can only hear in my father’s voice. He had a special setlist for my mother and I: “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton and “America” by Simon and Garfunkel for my mom, and “House at Pooh Corner” by Loggins and Messina and “Sweet Baby James” by James Taylor for me. As I grew, I made requests as if he was my own personal jukebox. Any Taylor Swift song was an assumed hit for me, so he bought a book and learned as many as he could. I began learning “Soon You’ll Get Better” and swapping the end of the chorus of “Father and Daughter” by Paul Simon for him recently. 

My dad forgot my seventeenth birthday, and I immediately called my family and told them I thought he progressed to dementia. Everyone called my bluff, but he had been messing up dates and times for a while. As vain as it was to assume, it was true that my dad never missed a birthday, and would do anything to make them special. I cried in the counselor’s office all day because I didn’t wake up to pancakes and a card, and not because I felt entitled to them, but because I knew this was the beginning of the end. The truth was, we were immersed in the end of my dad, let alone crossing a threshold. I was losing the valuable words and wisdom of my father to his inability to speak well, he lost his ability to play guitar, to garden, to drive, and so many invaluable traits that encompassed my dad. His compassion never left him, despite being stripped of everything. My dad held me while I cried over juvenile issues while dying right in front of me, and he could never know how grateful I felt to have a man that always put me first despite his own circumstances. 

After that, his stuttered and murmured words lost their meaning. His sentences became encrypted code that I would have to translate, his famous jokes stopped landing because he was stripped of his comedic timing, and he forgot most things he was told. He became  a hollow shell of my father, and I took every opportunity to be grateful. I was grateful for the pitch of his voice, because it still reminded me of the man that was taken away from us. His music taste never changed, so I would give him aux in the car to learn more of his favorite songs. We watched his favorite shows together so I could get to know him even better. I helped him read books and encouraged him to play guitar, despite much of his skill leaving him. It was comforting to watch him strum a chord, because my mind still saw him as when I was a little girl, with the coolest dad who could play anything on the guitar. For a brief moment, I’d let myself think it was true. I’d let him rant about science and Chiropractic and not correct him when his brain failed him, because for a moment, he was still the man who knew everything about the whole world to me. I would have to reach the inner depths of my imagination to have him back, but I was grateful for the few seconds where it felt real, and all of this felt like a nightmare. 

I spent a year in denial and two spiraling. I would never have someone to walk me down the aisle, my hypothetical children couldn't have the best grandpa, and my dad wouldn’t get to see me accomplish everything I told him I would, despite him never having a doubt that I would regardless. I wanted him to see my future classroom, future spouse, future home, and I didn’t want him to be a figure I pray to for guidance, but someone I call and bitch about the Jets to. We had plans for him to be the first person to take me to Paris, the city of love, because he’d always love me the most. When a two hour plane trip to Tennessee became inconceivable, I knew I’d never go unless it was alone or with him. The last year has been spent in a transitional period of gratitude. After that TikTok, I attempted to be grateful for every aspect of him that was still here. He had a complicated and long hip replacement surgery on December 13th, 2023, and I was grateful for the few months I got to see him walk again, instead of dreading the several months later where I’d have to watch his legs fail him for the second time in my life, and go through the emotions all over again. I was grateful for the opportunity to go to college instead of having to be his caretaker, because I know I’ll have to return home soon after graduation to fill the position. I was grateful for the shell of my dad that hasn’t been taken away from him, because there are still admirable aspects of my father, pretty much all of them are. He helps those in need, despite him needing the help more. He is extremely well mannered and thanks those who help him constantly. He is driven and convinced this disease won’t take anything from him. When he looks in the mirror at all that he’s lost, he’s convinced it’ll come back to him someday. I don’t like saying I lost hope, but in this case, I’m a perpetual pessimist who would love to be surprised. I try to be realistic or optimistic, but I don’t want to lie to myself and ignore the truth. My dad has an atypical terminal disease that doctors can’t properly diagnose or treat, and he’s been rapidly declining for four years. 

It hurts this bad because my father was so good. He is so good. He tries every day, and never fails to make me happy. That word makes it seem much more minimal than it is. He would give me the moon if it made me smile, despite his shaking hands and failing legs, he would find a way. We used to constantly say “you’re my girl” and “you’re my dad” to each other, and I find myself reminding him that that’s true at times. Regardless, I’m lucky to be his daughter, in any shape or condition that he’s in. 

My dad always told me when I was younger that when he died, he’d be the little itch in my pocket that I couldn’t quite place. That would be his way of telling me he was here with me when he couldn’t be. I got a tattoo of his handwriting two years ago, and it’s the most irritating thing. I consistently feel a phantom itch, and asked my dad if this was normal for my first tattoo. He said no, but not to overthink it. I like to think that the pieces of my dad that aren’t here anymore like to nudge me and piss me off, like the smartass my dad was. 

I used to be annoyed by hearing a guitar until 2am, and now I listen to videos of him playing until I can fall asleep, likely later than the aforementioned time. Life is all about perspective, and I’ve chosen to be grateful for the aspects of my dad that I still have, rather than focus on all that I’ve lost. In the words of Paul Simon that I rephrase when I sing this song to my dad, (in many ways, symbolic of how our roles in each other’s lives have shifted) there could never be a daughter who loves her father more than I love him. 

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-your grateful blog author

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