I’m sitting at the eye doctor’s office today—not for myself, but for my dad. He has a regularly scheduled appointment to help manage the macular degeneration in both eyes.
I drove him in his car. He can’t get into mine, a BMW X6, so he bought a Chevrolet Blazer. I’m happy to take him. He’s driven me to plenty of appointments over the years.
But today feels bittersweet.
Dad got ready on his own. He got dressed, made it down the stairs, climbed into the car, buckled his seat belt, got out at the office, and walked inside. It was good to see him manage something important to him.
And it left me thinking about what else seems important. Seeing the TV and scrolling on his phone appear to matter. But he hasn’t seen his wife since around the end of August.
He made one attempt. I didn’t take him, and I own that. But there hasn’t been another attempt since. He says he’s in too much pain to go.
Today, he made it to this appointment.
I’m not saying his pain isn’t real. I’m sitting with the contradiction, and with the sadness of watching him make the effort for one thing while the distance from his wife continues. I can’t make that choice for him.
