About a decade ago I started kissing my dad on the cheek
when I told him goodbye.
It was awkward at first; I usually only kiss men when
I’m in Europe.
By the
time I began these public displays of affection my father was 74 and frail, a
gaunt shadow of his former 6’3”, 220-pound self. A combination of early
Parkinson’s, early Alzheimer’s, and TIA (mini-strokes) were taking their toll.
And it didn’t help when at about age 60, Dad was struck by a car in a Wendy’s
parking lot, thrown up over the hood, and had to be re-built with metal and
bionics. For several years afterward one of Dad’s legs was 6 inches shorter
than the other: He had to learn to walk all over again.
So when
he was 74, and I was leaving Kansas to go home to California, I bent over one
day and kissed my dad goodbye. I think we were both startled by my sudden and
non-planned emotion. But Dad smiled and I realized that next time, if I could
work up the courage, maybe I would kiss him goodbye on purpose.
I did so,
and it gradually became a pattern. Any time I was leaving my dad --- walking
away from his hospital room or living room, I would bend over and kiss him on
the cheek. Dad would smile and sometimes reach out to give me a hug.
At age
81 Dad lost the love of his life, his wife of 60 years. In her absence I took
up the duties of practical nurse, home health aide, housecleaner, doer of
laundry and other chores. Dad was suddenly living solo, but didn’t have the
ability to clean up, fix up, pick up, or sometimes even get up. So my wife and
I stepped into the gap and I began seeing my dad twice a week at a minimum,
even though he lived five hours away.
Dad
survived my non-professional care for a year, after which his medical team
strongly advised finding a skilled nursing facility, not relying on a temp worker
from several hundred miles away. We shopped Dad around to assisted living
communities, both in our city and his, but none could handle the degree of care
Dad needed on a constant basis. All of them agreed with Dad’s doctors: “Skilled nursing.”
These
days Dad’s basic needs are supplied by people with professional training. They
feed him and bathe him. They keep both Dad and his surroundings hygienic. They
dress him and help him stand or sit or move. In short, they do everything I did
for that first year after Mom left us --- except they do it professionally. I
was a rank amateur.
About
the only thing they don’t do these days is kiss my dad on the cheek. That is
still my signature custom. Dad expects it and looks forward to it and Dad smiles,
even when he can’t form a word. This week, spending four of the past seven days
at Dad’s side, I’ve had quite a few chances to kiss him goodbye when leaving
his room. I don’t say it, and I try not to think it --- but any of these kisses
could be the last.
I kiss
him; Dad smiles. I give Dad some verbal proclamations also but somehow the kisses
seem to reach Dad at a deeper level. He watches me lean over and he turns his
cheek, ever so slightly, getting ready to receive my goodbye. I kiss him, and
then say “I love you, Dad” and he lights up from the inside.
Dad’s
300-watt smile is down to a mere candle glow these days, but watching him light
up reminds me that kissing your dad can be a good thing, even if it feels a bit
uncomfortable the first few times you try it.
I love
you, Dad.
