For his 79th birthday, my aunt and I took my dad
out to his favorite Mexican restaurant, Ocho Café in West Hartford. After we
gorged ourselves on delicious tacos and enchiladas, the manager and a group of
staff brought out a complimentary dessert and belted out their best heavily
accented “happy birthday” rendition. My dad thanked the manager and told him
how much he and my mom loved coming here. He then told the manager that my mom
passed away a couple months ago. The manager replied, “we know, and we wanted
to tell you that all of us here really admired the way you took care of her and
brought her out to enjoy herself.”
My first thought, was, “How often did my parents come here?” My second thought was *cries loudly on the inside.*
When the nurse who was looking after my mom in the ICU heard that my mom was still living at home at the age of 78, with advanced Parkinson’s for many years and in a wheelchair for 5 years, she seemed shocked, and exclaimed, “You never see that. Usually, the husband puts them in a home.” Doctors had recommended he do just that several times over the past few years.
But see, my dad is not usual. In his mid and late 70s, before and after his own knee replacement surgery, he was helping my wheelchair-bound mom dress, use the toilet, go out to eat, visit family, and anything else she wanted or needed to do. Never mind the mental and spiritual toll of seeing your spouse in this condition, the physical toll alone is something most people would avoid.
At my mom’s funeral, I heard a lot of people say that my dad is a saint. Saint Ken.
If people feel that way, I won’t refute it. Maybe it’s just my secular worldview, but I wouldn’t call him a saint. He’s not performing miracles. He’s a good man who is deeply committed to his loved ones, and he made a choice to remain committed until the very end. He wasn’t doing anything that “normal” humans aren’t capable of, even though most would never choose to; he was doing the hard work of loving and caring for someone with an illness into their final years. His wife needed him, and he was going to do everything he could possibly do to support her, and more importantly, give her life value.
My parents saw the value in all life. Recently, as the Covid pandemic raged around the globe, it was obvious that many people did not. When the stats showed that most people who died from Covid were over 65, pundits and politicians told us all we need to get back to work. Grandma and Grandpa dying is a worthy sacrifice if it increases the US GDP by half a percentage point!
I heard so many people just dismiss the elderly entirely. Dismiss life past a certain age. It messed me up because two of the people I care for most were deemed disposable. Then I thought, well shit. I’m 40. I guess I only have 25 meaningful years left.
The pandemic was not a fun time!
Our society prioritizes…idolizes…worships youth. While at the same time, our society hates kids. Duality! We prize beauty and vitality over wisdom and maturity. We pay any amount of money to look and feel young. To most people, “aging gracefully” means looking good by simulating youth. And if it’s not possible to look young, have the decency to never show your face in public. Or at least not during peak hours. Stick to the early bird specials.
Did that mean that my parents, both in their 70s—one in a wheelchair with a degenerative neurological disease—were simply living ghosts? The Walking Dead, or The Rolling Dead? It was hard not to be angry all the time at a society that kept telling you your loved ones don’t matter.
But instead of getting angry…or, rather, in addition to getting angry…I realized that the most radical act in an uncaring society is to care, to value all life. I didn’t make that realization on my own. As the infamous DARE commercial once said, “I learned it from watching you, Dad.” (Ironically, I did not learn about drugs from my dad. Thanks, UConn! Go Huskies!)
My dad taught me, through his actions, to dare to find value in all life; dare to love people (and animals) that are sick, or even close to death, those deemed worthless.
In 2021, a few months
after defeating cancer, my parents’ beloved good boy Cody died after a long,
happy life. Long in dog years. It's never long enough. My parents always had a dog,
and my dad always had a very strong bond with his dogs. He was especially close
with Cody for many reasons. One reason was that Cody was there for him as my
mom’s health deteriorated and she had to go in a wheelchair and she spent more
and more time in the hospital. So it was a huge loss when Cody died. But as
usual, he didn’t linger on the death and sadness; he started looking for
another companion. There are no replacements for a lost pet, but you can begin
a new relationship that can help you cope with the loss and that can grow into
something just as meaningful.
So there was no doubt my
parents would get another dog, and that it would be a rescue. I figured a puppy
would be too much of a handful, but I didn't expect a shaggy, half blind, 8
year old dog named Hobbs.
I know a lot of people never consider adopting an older pet. For most people, the point is to have a
pet for as long as possible. And for a bigger dog like Hobbs, 8 is not too far
from his life expectancy. And he was mostly blind. So why go through all the
trouble? What’s the point if the dog is going to die soon?
This mentality is
common, but that doesn’t make it any less problematic. For one thing, it means
that a lot of deserving older animals never get adopted and never have a chance
for a decent life. But I've also been thinking about what it means
on a philosophical level. This refusal to adopt older animals reflects a lot
about our feelings towards older people, and how we feel about the relation
between time and life.
When people think of age and
life, most people value quantity over quality. They want to live a long life. Living
longer means you won! But at the same time, as a society, we don’t value those
people who live longer. We put them away in nursing homes or other facilities,
which wouldn’t actually be too bad, if we properly funded those facilities. But
once we place them there, if the healthcare services aren’t adequate, hey, that’s
not our problem. We are young and full of life! Not like those old people. We’ll
never be like those old people! Then when an old person dies, our fascination
and respect for higher numbers comes back, and we say “oh they lived such a
long life! 95 years…can’t ask for much more than that!” As a society, we have
issues with age, is what I’m saying.
But my dad, and my mom, always valued quality over quantity. They cherished life, and they gave value to each other’s life and everyone they met. Every animal they met, too. Hobbs could have spent his last days or months in a kennel, waiting to die or be put down by strangers. Instead, he had a great last 9 months with my parents and their cat, Max.
Max, another rescue, another pet with an eye problem. My dad got Max about two years after my parents’ sweet cat Kay passed away. It was soon after my mom had The Incident that kept her in the hospital and nursing home for a while. When she was in there, taking all types of new drugs—and often missing her regular Parkinson’s drugs because the nurses were not trained for that because of the lack of proper funding for the facilities that I mentioned earlier—she kept hallucinating and seeing cats in the room. She told everyone she was trying to save these cats and she even tried to recruit people who visited her to help her save the cats.
So, when she finally came home, guess who was waiting to meet her? Literally the cat of her dreams. Well, one of the cats from her dreams.
Then, Max almost immediately clawed her arm to shreds. But it was out of love! And they became inseparable friends. And my dad loves cats, too, so it wasn’t an entirely selfless act, but it was just another example of the thoughtfulness behind his actions.
After Hobbs died, the search for another companion began, and shortly after, Archie arrived from Louisiana. Now, outside of New Orleans, Louisiana is as backwoods as you can get, and their views on animals are a little different than in New England. The story goes, his owner kept him outside and at some point even the minimal effort to keep a dog alive was too much, so she decided she would shoot him and open up her schedule for more Dr. Phil reruns and Miller Lite. Thankfully he was rescued and eventually paired with my father. Another disregarded life my dad would take care of.
Archie arrived thin and scared, with fur falling off and his tail between his legs. He would slink away from most people and barely eat.
That lasted a few weeks. With the love and care of my dad, he was soon flourishing, greedily eating the crumbs off my mom’s lap, prancing over to meet me at the door when I visited. No surprise at all, really. Another soul saved by Saint Ken.
Technically, anyone can do what he does. It’s a choice, followed by determination and commitment. Many people choose not to. They choose not to rescue animals when they are looking for pets, opting for the popular, specialized, expensive breeds. They choose not to take the older dogs, the disabled dogs, the difficult dogs. They choose not to stand by their wife as her body fails and her mind slowly deteriorates. They choose not to help their spouse eat and dress and wash, day in and day out. They choose not to sit by their spouse's hospital bed until the very moment that cherished life leaves her body in gasps and then whispers. They choose not to confront the most difficult aspects of life head on with kindness and humility.
And it’s not that he never lost patience. He just never let a bad or weak moment extend into a habit. It’s not that he never made a mistake. He just never gave up. He was inspired by my mother’s resilience and determination, but she was just as inspired by his. Her life was literally extended by his resilience and determination and support.
Not only was it extended, it was enhanced. Even when she was confined to the wheelchair, her life was enriched because my parents chose to give value to life. I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I know it is not to simply live a long time. We, as individuals, as family and community members, give it meaning. For my dad, giving to others, helping others, gives meaning to his life. Whether it’s in his role as a husband, brother, father or grandfather, he is a provider, someone who can always be relied on. He was a coach and a father figure to countless kids, including all my friends and my brother’s friends.
I’ve learned so much from my father throughout my entire life. He’s taught me some things directly, but mostly he teaches by example. For the last few years, he’s taught me one of the most important lessons of all: how to age gracefully. Although I don’t look forward to the golden years of knee replacement surgeries and arthritis, I can only hope to always emulate his approach to life. I hope to be able to provide my wife with the love and support and quality of life that he provided my mom. I hope to be a person that my family and friends can always rely on. I hope to always find value in life, despite any disability or illness or the proximity of death.
I often doubt my ability to do what he did for my mom. I hope I never have to prove myself. Maybe I am capable. Maybe we all are, and when we are faced with those situations, it really does come down to choice. Or maybe most people are simply incapable and he really is a saint. Regardless, I hope to live my life the way he has. I hope to give value to the lives of those I love. He didn’t pass on his good hair genes to either of his sons, but maybe he passed on the dedication and commitment and thoughtfulness genes.
And since I still need the lessons, hopefully he can continue to teach me by example for many more years. At least until he's 95. That's a good, long life. Can't ask for much more than that!
I Love You All...Class Dismissed.
