The shine went out of my father...
The shine went out of my father when he went to live at a home that specialized in patients with Parkinson's. You could tell he wanted to say that he'd been promised this would never happen, but that he knew my mother could no longer look after him. Stairs, showers, the outdoors. They'd all become dangers to this man who'd flown bombers during the Second World War. Now he was surrounded by people he'd been taught to hate while growing up in the Canadian prairies and later while fighting in Europe. Roommates, and some of the staff, with "foreign gibberish" coming out of their "dark faces." He declined bingo and game shows on the TV in the community spaces. He ate dinner most nights alone in his room. The last time I saw him, he called me a "distant relative" and asked the nurse to stay until I'd left. Born in 1920, he died at 99, and for the 40 years I knew him, I wondered what kept him going for so long – I couldn't imagine hatred and distrust providing so much sustenance. But occasionally, I check online, read a paper, or look out the window.