Maybe because it’s winter, I have been thinking lately about something that happened 8 or 9 winters ago.
My Dad continued driving until he was 91 years old. One day, when my Dad was around 90, I was outside my parents’ house as my Dad was making his way to his car. He fell. He was allright-he hadn’t hit his head or anything like that, and he wanted very badly for me to help him get back up. I had taken a nurse’s aide course, and I was afraid that if I attempted to help him on my own, I would end up hurting him. He was stretching his hand out to me, wanting me to help him and he was pretty insistent about it. I pulled out my cell phone and called 911, over my father’s objections.
As I was talking to the dispatcher, I turned my back to my father, in order to focus on giving the dispatcher the necessary information. After telling the disatcher everything he needed to know, and being assured that help was on its way, I turned back to my Dad, who was standing there with his walker, with a smile a mile wide on his face. He had managed to lift himself up on his own, without any help from me or anyone. He was very,very pleased with himself. I then informed the dispatcher that my 90 year old father had gotten his own self up, and appeared to be fine. The EMTs were called off.
Several people have told me that my Dad was the toughest man they have ever known: he was so incredibly tough. He lived to be 95. I was so blessed to have him for as long as I did, but I still feel robbed. I still feel like he died way too soon. The only thing that makes his death bearable is knowing how much he hated being old, and knowing that he is now young again in Heaven. I miss you, Dad.