Visiting My Parents

Visiting my parents in the mountains isn't the same this time. Maybe it doesn't feel like old times because it is hotter in August than in June, when we usually visit: mountains are not supposed to be hot! Maybe it didn't feel like the mountains at first because we spent time in town with it's bustling traffic and constant racket. I did feel more at peace when we walked down to the playground in the late evening of our second day. It was cool in the late dusk, quiet, except for the soothing music of the cicadas and frogs, the occasional bark of a dog. The great trees on their mountain sides smothered all other sounds and surrounded us in a green bubble of calm.

It is quiet at my parents' house too, but not peaceful. My father dozes, hanging off the edge of a chair in the sun room. Or he shuffles around the house slowly, like an old man. With every movement, his skin splits open a little more, flaking off and floating around him in his own personal blizzard. His shoulders fold forward, weighted by gravity and 30-40 extra pounds of retained water. His thin, grey hair points in all directions, moved by probing, stiff fingers trying to find relief from his constant itch.

This is my Dad. The man who used to enthusiastically lead his gaggle of griping daughters and his wife on all sorts of wild hikes up fire-blackened hillsides, through unbroken thorn brush, and untrodden "paths," all in pursuit of finding the highest point. This is the man who used to enjoy a killing game of squash three time a week in Malawi. This is the man who usually breaks into song as he putters around the house, who sees some humour in almost any situation, who always smiles when he sees his daughters. But he didn't smile once during my visit.

Dad says he can relate with Job from the Bible - the sores, the itch, the pain. I hope God doesn't take it so far as to allow all his children to die, and Mum says she definitely doesn't want to give birth to five more daughters! Dad doesn't even smile for this. He keeps his head bowed and rolls his eyes towards us in reprimand. He appreciates that Mum doesn't tell him to "curse God and die," as Job's wife did. And the friends who come to visit offer him encouragement through God's word, unlike Job's friends. So his situation isn't quite as bad as Job's. It just feels that way sometimes.

We try to tempt him with drives or walks in the mountains, touring the Biltmore Estate, which he usually loves. He doesn't come with us even once. He doesn't have the energy or the motivation. He does play cards with my son a few times, but you know he has to be bad if an eleven-year old beats him 2 times. Scooter crows his success - first time beating Grandpa at anything except Wii bowling; Dad doesn't say anything. My daughter is scared of Grandpa. She keeps asking him if he is dying, to which Dad replies, "Not this minute." I'm sure those conversations cheer him no end.

In the end, all I can do to help him is make some hummus and print a few recipes for his new vegan diet. It isn't much. He thanks me profusely anyway. I feel almost as defeated as he does.