My dad, for those of you who may not know, is 91 years old. It is my job to get him to his doctor appointments and let me tell you, there are many. That's OK though. At 91, a person requires a lot of maintenance and assistance, so my siblings and I work together to make sure he has what he needs.
The doctor I took him to see today is a woman, a cute, funny, sweet, friendly woman of, oh I'd say, maybe 45 or 50 years old. A baby, in Dad years. Our appointment was at 1:30, and my dad lives about 3 or 4 miles from the office. That means the process began at about 11 am today. Dad moves very slow. Picture a glacier. Frozen solid. Dad might win a race with said glacier, but doubtful.
It alwys tugs at my heart to see my dad so gray, slow and aged. As his daughter, I remember an energetic man, a gardener, a swimmer, a worker, a joker, a dad. My dad knows this, and he uses it to his full advantage. When we finally made it to the doctor's office and got seated in an examination room, I was thinking about how hard all this is for him. How tough it is for him to just get around. How exhausting it is. It breaks my heart for him.
But then, of course, he is my dad. As soon as the doctor walked into the room, Dad perked up, slipped his hand inside her lab coat and quipped, "Come here and let me see how you're feeling." I was mortified. He was suddenly full of life, full of one-liners and double entendre. I suddenly felt like the proverbial third wheel, and a nauseated third wheel at that.
And that, folks, is how our parents still get to us, even at the ripe old age of 91.
You're a good daughter. Just buy more wine.
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