On August 11, 2024, my protector, my hero, my Dad, passed away.
Dad lived a long and comfortable life, passing peacefully in his sleep while seated in his favorite chair. I am fortunate to have had him in my life for so many years, and I know he's grateful to have witnessed his family grow to include two children, five grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren.
I'm not sure why it's taken me several months to write this post. The reason I started this blog was to create an online platform for my memoir, which chronicles my teen years dealing with spondylolisthesis and then scoliosis. Dad's passing has brought me back to that project, which has been simmering on the proverbial back-burner for several years. The manuscript is chock full of stories that describe how my devoted father was a reluctant spectator as I navigated those awkward, painful, challenging years.
During the first three months following my spondylolisthesis surgery I was restricted to a hospital bed, encased in a body cast that covered me from ribs to hips, and extended down my right leg to just above the knee.
Once that first half of my recovery time had elapsed, Dr. Keim said I could start to walk. We got the green light on a Monday, but my reluctant parents wanted me to wait until Friday. I negotiated Wednesday as a compromise. That afternoon, Dad had just walked through the back door after his shift when I told him I was ready to roll.
“Don’t you wanna wait ‘til Mommy gets home?” Dad asked hopefully.
“Well, I could walk then and now,” I reasoned. If it was within his power, I knew there were few things my father would deny me.
“Let me take my coat off, huh?” he said resignedly.
After positioning the walker nearby, Dad lowered the side rail on my bed as I gleefully kicked free of the covers. Dad leaned over and lifted me, supporting my back with one arm and the bulk of the rest of the cast with his other arm. His arm muscles strained against the combined weight of me and the cast but he held me firmly, setting me gently on my feet in front of the walker.
My mind and body struggled to adjust to the change from horizontal to vertical. Blood rushed to my feet, making them appear purple. Lightheaded, I swayed to one side, then frantically searched behind me for Dad’s strong arms, but he was already there, holding me tightly and steadying me on my shaky feet.
Suddenly thankful for the walker in front of me, I gripped its handle and stood still, registering the strange sensations in my legs and feet. I could barely feel the hardwood floor beneath me as my feet tingled with pins-and-needles. My legs felt like they were fused together and the sensation of the cast on my right thigh felt especially strange.
Enough! I wanted to walk and walk I would. Frowning in concentration I willed my feet to shuffle forward, surprised that I could barely raise each foot from the floor. I leaned on the walker, sensing Dad’s alert presence behind me, his arms spread slightly, ready to assist me if needed.
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, I slowly traveled to the archway between the living room and dining room. Elated with my accomplishment, I leisurely surveyed the living room, noting where each piece of furniture had been moved to make room for my hospital bed.
“I’m feeling a little tired,” I admitted.
Dad sprung into action, helping me turn around. On the return trip, my steps were less stilted and I smiled at the quick progress I had made.
Just one of many times that Dad, powerless to prevent what I had to endure, did whatever he could to make me happy, comfortable, loved, and supported during those difficult years and throughout my life.
I am forever grateful and proud to be his daughter.
