Today, my always capable, unflappable father gave me his power of attorney.
This may not seem like a watershed event at first glance but let me tell you about him. He is a hybrid of the 1930s good provider and a modern-day sensitive man. I use the 1930s as a benchmark because, as a child growing up in an immigrant home during the Depression, he always provided for his family ahead of himself. No fancy car or fancy clothes for him, but for my mother and the kids, whatever was necessary — within reason. True, he bristled (ok, more than bristled) at the conspicuous consumption of our classmates in high school (and our desire similarly to consume conspicuously) and at what my mother termed the “Gucci, Pucci and Fiorucci crowd”. Ward Cleaver he wasn’t. But he is a gentle man who adored my mother and who took care of her tirelessly and with love all through her long illness. And, when I was a troubled 20-something, he would hug me and tell me to hold on tight to him and all would be ok. Wherever “there” was, he would go there for his wife and his kids because he loved us.
These days (as opposed to during our growing up years), he makes few demands on his kids and is happy just to be around us. Of course, the quid pro quo is that we have to listen to the same stories and opinions that haven’t advanced since the 1980s (ok, maybe 1990s) but, to be honest, he is a lovely, lovely man who is heartsick at the prejudices and other cruelties that still exist in the world.
Up until recently, convincing him to change a habit was hard because he is a fiercely independent spirit, even as his aging started to make us worry about one thing or another. SOB (sister of blogger) and I had to enlist POB (partner of blogger) to talk to Dad about many different things over the years, because (1) Dad adores POB and (2) if we talked to him about it, you could see the indignation in his face and hear it in his voice as he asserted that he, as parent, was not to be questioned.
So, today, my father, aged 90, handed over control to me.
I am moved so deeply that he trusts me and I am so afraid that this means that my incredibly strong, independent father thinks he needs help on big picture decisions. I prefer to think that he has gotten to the point where he thinks (in quintessential Dad language), “hey, if I can delegate the senseless paperwork to my daughter and not worry about it, I am way ahead of the game!” So, Dad, on that theory, I accept the power of attorney, only so you have more time to sculpt and paint.
Because I cannot today imagine a world where the man, who kept me together and helped back on my feet when I was in my 20s and fragile, is slipping away.
Stay strong, Dad.
