In the Oil of the Father

December 30, 2010 by Susan Hansell.

When my father asks me if I’ve seen my mother, I don’t tell him that she’s dead anymore.  He doesn’t remember anyway, and it just upsets him, as if he were hearing it for the first time.  if I don’t tell him the truth, I don’t have to go though seeing him look like someone punched him in the gut, and I don’t have to listen to his same incredulous questions:  When did that happen?  Where was I?  Where were you?

Besides, since when have I told me father “the truth”?

Lying means I don’t have to answer his questions, either; something I’ve never been able to do with much satisfaction, on his part at least, though maybe on my part as well, no matter the subject.   The reason why is, perhaps, as an old friend of mine from high school liked to put it, as did his girlfriend, who never knew my father in his most vociferously self-righteous prime:  My dad likes to dominate.  Even in his new residence, a very good memory care center that looks like an old house from the 1940’s and that is staffed by people who give lots of care and concern to the old folks who live there, my father likes to think he’s in charge.  He likes to think all the people there work for him, that he’s at work, giving orders, and that my mom is at home, at his house, and that he’ll be seeing her just as soon as he can find a way to leave.  “Next weekend, I’m not going to work so much,” he told me, as he looked out over the big cozy common room with some mild disgust, the last time I was visiting him.

The first time my dad asked me where my mom was, years after she had passed, I felt a sense of panic swell up to my neck, and could utter only, “uh, uh, uh, well, uh…”  he interrupted me, mocking my stuttering with a sarcastic “uh, uh, uh, well, uh:  are you fighting with your mother or something, huh, is that it?” Then he laughed.

So now when he asks me about my mom, I say, “I think she’s working on the election returns,” or “I think she’s over at the library; it’s her day to work there,” or, “She’s babysitting for ____,” or “She’s visiting_______,” and, if he’s in a good mood, he might reply in a light sarcastic vein, “Oh, that’s right, she’s always volunteering for something!”  Adding, with mock indignation and a humorous air of protest, “But I don’t see her anymore!”

Such conversations become more difficult when my father insists my mom must be “seeing” someone else, a ludicrous assertion if you knew my mother.  Even if she were alive to make the suggestion possible, the truth is that my mother bragged to me on her death bed, with great pride, that she’d only “Known” one man in her life.  Sure mom, rub it in, I said.  And although she was in the excruciating final throws of metastatic cancer, she laughed and laughed, and she probably blushed, too.

My conversations with my father are much more painful to me than that, though.  Especially when, after taking him out for a walk, or for a bite to eat, he looks at me, stricken, and says “I don’t have any cash, but send me the bill, and I’ll write you a check for this!”  Or, worse, “Who are these people?”  “Why are you taking me here?”  “Take me home!”  “I want to go home!”  “I want to go back to my house!”

Fortunately, for the first time in his life, my father is easily distracted.  He forgets everything in a minute or two, and if, for example, I ask him for help carrying a box or a bag, the imprint of his era’s gallantry requires of him he help a lady, and by the time he’s finished “helping,” he’s forgotten how upset he was, or what he was upset about, or what’s different about the place he’s in now from any other place, or any other people, he’s ever known.

I’m preparing for the day my father will not recognize me as his daughter, or recognize anything, or know who he “is,” and probably, because he’s so totally helpless, and because his helplessness evokes in me the sort of wrenching pity I feel for someone who could never admit a weakness, but who was, in actuality, weak, in a variety of ways, due to this inability, probably because of these reasons, and to lots more that I might one day or may never understand, I will continue to visit my dad, finding ways to communicate with him, or just ways to help him feel as happy or as comfortable as he can, given the daily dyings of his life.

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