I visited my parents over the Christmas break. They are both 85 years old and live in their own home in a small outport in rural Newfoundland, a 45-minute drive from a hospital or even a doctor.
Two years ago, my father, who has been treated for both prostate and colon cancer, became gravely ill with a combination of gout, a form of leukemia that dramatically reduced his red blood cell and platelet count, and, once confined to a bed, pneumonia.
He barely survived it, and when I went to visit him shortly after his release from hospital, I was pretty sure it might be our last time together.
Somewhat miraculously, after being sent home to ‘get his affairs in order,’ he began to gain strength. Although somewhat slow to provide support to a man on his last legs, the medical system, after some prodding, did set up a program of blood transfusions and drug treatments that would not only extend his life, but give him a pretty decent quality of life. His hunting, fishing and handyman days were done, but he’s at home, eating good meals, driving his own vehicle to get to medical appointments, and socializing with friends.
My mom, as stoic as ever, keeps the house and clothing clean and the hot food on the table. They seem pretty content most of the time, although I suspect my mother worries a lot more than she lets on to.
The leukemia is weakening him steadily; each transfusion might actually kill him; the two of them have to travel once, often twice a week on a long, rural road that is a risk to them and everyone else on the road with them. They are well watched by good friends and neighbours, who phone or drop in daily, but they, too, are in their ’70s or ’80s. They all worry about each other and they are all vulnerable to risk in their isolated setting.
I have decided, despite the fact that I am not completely in a financial position to do so, nor truly ready to retire, to pick up stakes and move in with or near them. Before anyone gets too excited about the ‘honourable’ thing I am doing, let me suggest that it is as much a decision of duty as it is of honour.
For the entire time I have been in the care of my parents, they have done whatever they needed to in order to support me. My father left home for 11 months of the year to sail in the merchant marines because it was the only thing he knew how to do, with a very limited education, to ensure that his family had a roof over its head, three meals a day and clean clothing. It’s not what he wanted to do, it’s what he had to do.
After he retired and we sat one day to talk, he told me how lucky I was to be in a profession where I could watch my family grow up. That day I truly learned what duty to your family meant. Because we were apart most of our lives, I hardly knew my dad, but the sad look in his eyes that day, for what he had missed, taught me as much as the words he said.
I know I am blessed to be in a position to make the decision I am making and I know few others have that option. If my parents needed serious medical care or assistance for mental health, I would simply not be qualified. But the help they need right now, I am eminently qualified to provide. I can help them stay in their own home, travel safely, navigate the health care system and, most of all, just be there to provide loving support and to be a willing victim to a cribbage whooping a couple of times a day.
For the first time in my life, I’m going to spend more than a two-week vacation with my dad.
Just as parenting is a duty of love, so is being a child, and I am grateful I will have the opportunity to practice that.
Graham Hookey is an
educator and writer
(ghookey@yahoo.com).