My dad turned 85 this week. He was musing aloud about his expected life expectancy, “I figure I have about five years left,” he declared, “as long as things go as expected.” He is a scientist, so his matter-of-fact, almost clinical detachment is at odds with my reaction, which is a sadness that comes with the realization that there are a finite number of years left to spend time with him, a finite number of birthdays, Fathers Days, Christmases, and just simple days to go out for lunch, or to sit and watch Korean soap operas with him and my mom.
With Bill’s dad’s passing in September, we already know what it’s like to come to the end of the allotment of days, and to have to draw on the bank of memory to bring a smile for the past. We knew these days would be coming, but when you are in the full heavy lifting of suburban parenthood, when the days and years roll one into the next, you are lulled into thinking that this now is the norm and will last forever. But we are all aging and moving on; transitions, they are called, and I am suddenly so aware that I am in the midst of another major life transition.
Molly graduates from college in May, and Will is going to be wrapping up his sophomore year of high school, which leaves only two more years until we are empty nesters. Looking forward not so long ago into the broad expanse of the future, it seemed that empty nesters were really old, and it would take us a long time to get there. And yet we are almost there. While our eyes kept looking out to the road in front of us, the present was zooming by.
When did my life of collecting things — baskets, frames, soccer paraphernalia, Power Ranger wrapping paper, Disney jewelry, glitter glue and poster paper, magic markers, stickers and stamps — suddenly turn into one of de-cluttering, shedding, giving away, clearing out the detritus of childhood. Sometimes, I have the sensation that if I lean in, breathe closely, and close my eyes, inhaling the air of the past will actually transport me there, to a time when my children were actually smaller than I, and I could hold them, squirming and sweet-scented, in my arms.
With my dad, I’ve had my disagreements — about how we spend our money, where we educate our kids, why I didn’t make certain life choices that he wanted me to make. It used to bother me. There were months and years where I felt like I could only tolerate time together with my parents, where I didn’t fully appreciate the time we had. What a foolish waste, when with the wisdom of age, you realize that time is the one thing we cannot recapture, that it keeps on ticking forward, and it does not wait for warm and fuzzy perfection.
With one brother in Hawaii and the other in Singapore, I am the child close to home; it is my responsibility to check on my parents, but especially in this winter of endless snow and ice. And now, with the tables turned, where I once only worried in a one-way direction about my children, the worry runs like a two-way street, with my parents as well.
The questions are different, but the feeling is similar: Did my mom remember to turn off the stove when they went out; did I install the light bulbs too close to the ceiling so they pose a fire hazard; I changed the batteries on their smoke detector, but dad wouldn’t get on that ladder himself to check, would he; why isn’t their carbon monoxide detector plugged in (I’ll have to buy them a new one); why haven’t they set up the new electric toothbrushes I got them for Christmas (I’ll have to set them up next time I’m there); is Dad’s vision good enough to drive safely; is Mom’s hearing worse than it was last time (we should look at hearing aids but she keeps refusing); why can’t they learn how to use the smartphone I gave them?
In the snowstorm before last, I had a niggling feeling, as I drove up to Morristown for an unrelated matter, that I should stop in and check on them, despite my father’s protestations that they were fine, and the new snow blower he had just purchased would do the trick to dig them out.
When I got there, I observed that they had managed to clear one small trail, one snow blower-length wide, from their garage to their mailbox, but the rest of their long driveway was encased in snow and ice. As I worked to dig them out, both of them kept shuffling out to insist that I stop and come in, to eat something, to rest, and they could take care of it later. But even as my mother protested, she went down on the ice. She is small and agile and bounced right up, but if my father goes down in a fall, it would be disaster, and he knows it.
So, here is my plan, for this year and beyond. I am going to continue to enjoy my children, especially the last two years Will has at home in high school. I’m also going to enjoy my parents, in what will inevitably be the last years I have left with them, as my father so reasonably noted himself. These years will be even more special because I know they are measured, and any past hurts or disagreements will be put aside as the trivial matters that they are and always should have been.
