My dad told me he would be willing to consider assisted living, but if he had to be bed-bound, forget it. No operation. It would be time to give up.
And I thought.
Okay, but it won't get to that. It's a minor procedure. You will be fine.
And besides, you will live with me, if you need to.
We will be okay.
My dad told me he is the luckiest father in the world. "I have the best children," he said.
And I thought, no we're not.
No, we're not.
"The most generous."
No, we're not.
"The most compassionate. They understand what I want. That I don't want to struggle. I want to die independent."
And this is true. We do understand. Still....
I am the one living nearby. The one who will drive home from Whidbey Island tomorrow, and then take him to the hospital on Wednesday and sit in a waiting room waiting for a surgeon I do not know. Who knows what this surgeon will be like? It could be some Gray's Anatomy kind of surgeon who is busy dreaming about getting into the scrubs of another surgeon. Or it could be a hung over surgeon. Or a surgeon in the throws of a divorce.
I hope my dad's doctor is not some horny, hungover divorcee.
Afterwards, I will call my siblings. One in Colorado. The other in Illinois. I will let them know what is what.
I am the oldest.
The one who has known dad the longest.
We met when he was just thirty.
My thirty year old dad.
And I wish I would have known to remember.
I just wish I would known to remember.
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