Isetaboutarranginga planeticketbackhometoOhio
andcancelingmypatientsand commitmentsinBoston.
Twohourslaterhecalledback.He’dcalmeddown.He’d
beenableto standup again,evenwalkto thekitchen.
“You don’t have to come,” he said. “Come on the
weekend.” But I decided to go; the crises were mounting.
WhenImadeittoAthensearlythatevening,mymother
andfatherweresittingatthedinnertableeating,andthey
hadalreadyturnedthesixhourshespentparalyzedonthe
bedroom floor into a comedy in the retelling.
“It’sbeenyearssinceI’vebeendownonthefloor,”my
mother said.
“Itwasalmostromantic,”myfathersaid,withwhatIcan
only describe as a giggle.
Itriedtorollwithit.ButthepersonIsawbeforemewas
differentfromtheoneI’dseenjustafewweeksbefore.
He’d lost more weight. He was so weak his speech
sometimesslurred.Hehadtroublegettingfoodintohis
mouth,and his shirt wassmeared with his dinner.He
needed help standing from sitting. He’d become old
before my eyes.
Trouble wascoming. Todaywas thefirst day I really
grasped what it would mean for him to become
paralyzed.Itmeantdifficultywiththebasics—standing
up, getting to the bathroom, getting bathed, getting
dressed—andmymotherwasn’tgoingtobeabletohelp
him. We needed to talk.
Laterthatnight,Isatwithmyparentsandasked,“What
are we going to do to take care of you, Dad?”