I step into his isolated, lost and increasingly confused world and am
immediately submerged into a different space and time. A lived-in time warp, another dimension seemingly
hovering somewhere between universes. The
many household clocks tell a different time, but none the right one. Once a fastidious timekeeper, these
inconsistencies are all the more bewildering.
Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Heart Clubs Band is playing, but after a
while my numbed brain registers that it has been playing over and over and over
and over again. I hasten over to the CD player and flick the switch from repeat
to shuffle. If only everything could be as
easily rectified with the singular motion of pushing a single, solitary button.
The external pulse of the Beatles superficially masks the somber beats
pulsating from within. Yet no matter how loud and up-tempo the external music
is, the effect is ephemeral. As soon as
it stops, the internal beat sways to a sad slow waltz. So the music keeps playing,
and playing and playing. It has to.
Tonight’s the night that the baton will be unobtrusively passed from
parent to child in the presence of a third party, the family accountant. I feel
like an intruder, that I’m prying. I don’t really want to be here, I’m just the
‘baby of the family’. I want everything to be taken care of, just like it used
to be. Yet with my feet seemingly still affixed to the ground I am being pushed
and shoved into assuming a new household leadership role.
At some level I can’t
help but feel disrespectful, but deep down I know I am doing what I have to do,
responding to my dad’s unvoiced cry for help.
He just can’t manage. Dollars and
cents are like sand through an hourglass, where increasingly there is less and
less differentiation between the two, and zeros amount to that exact sum:
nothing.
From the other side of the dining table his penetrating gaze swiftly
envelops me. Eyes that have seen so much convey his understandable reticence to
move aside to allow for those with more spritely grey cells to assume a degree
of autonomy never previously shared. What used to be a secret, talked about in
whispers behind closed doors, is now laid out for all to see.
The sum of many years of devoted hard work
and an unwavering commitment to a meaningful career are now condensed to
numeric form. Previously rich anecdotes and daily oral accounts of life are now
compartmentalized to sketchy, faint and hazy memories, often voiced at
inopportune moments.
I would love to be able to bring back his competencies, his sense of
self, but this I cannot do. I must stick with the practical and leave the
emotions to one side, but as an emotional being, I struggle. I can’t truly relinquish the overwhelming feelings
that a role reversal necessarily entails.
Perhaps at some level I convince myself that I do not want to, as if
that happens I may become a little less human, a little less compassionate, a
little less sensitive to another person’s sense of loss.
Whether my dad vocalizes it or not, his look encapsulates the outcome that I had hoped to see. I got his blessing, and what daughter could ask for anymore?
