My father is 91 years young. He has one passable eye—his left. Nothing in his right. He has partial-hearing in his right ear. Nothing in his left. Both his knees have prosthetics, as do both his hips. Last year he fell and fractured his right femur, way down close to his right prosthesis. So close that the doctors were unable to surgically repair the broken bone--the injury had to heal on its own, which it did. But because healing at ninety-one is a flawed process, Dad now walks with a walker. In spite of his physical limitations however, my father continues to seek out, with great zest and zeal, any and every life moment available to him—moments that enable him to contribute, learn, absorb, marvel, expand, explore. Survive with dignity. That’s it—he continues to survive with dignity. He is an observer of many things. His wit is as sharp as a barber’s blade and the sparkle in his visually-challenged eyes is as bright as a newborn baby’s.
There. So now you have a picture of my dad.
You also need to know that, although my father claims to be anti-social, he actually really loves people. He just would rather watch them than talk to them.
I live with my mother and father, act as chauffeur for the multitude of doctor’s appointments, errands, runs to the store for bananas and Mocha Mix. I get the day started for them while they sleep through most of the morning. Start the coffee, pour the juice, empty the dishwasher, bring in the paper, set out the bowls for cereal, check the calendar for that day’s appointments, etc.
And so it was on a typical Wednesday afternoon that I drove Dad to his monthly dermatologist appointment—skin check for any insidious melanomas.
I parked. We got out—Dad using his cane. We entered the office. I noticed a few new products in the big display case. A batch of Thermage brochures centered on the magazine table. The waiting room was empty except for a perfectly placed alabaster mannequin dressed stylishly in contemporary clothes, posed naturally in one of the chairs. Cute, I thought to myself. Dr. Thompson has such a wicked sense of humor…
After successfully checking Dad in, I bade him goodbye and left to run a bank errand. When I returned, Dad toddled out of the doctor’s office and down the ramp to the Handicap Accessible parking space where I was parked. As he climbed into the car, I noticed a little half-grin which was my clue that he was about to tell me a story…..about something. Dad tells great stories……about anything.
And so he began. “Well…….I was sitting in the waiting room waiting for the nurse to call me. I noticed this lovely woman sitting across from me, but she didn’t seem to want to acknowledge me. So, I picked up a National Geographic and pretended to read while periodically glancing over at her to see what I could see. She had the most beautiful alabaster skin!
“I kept peeking out over my National Geographic to see if her expression or hands ever changed. But they never did. Did you notice her? Did you see her skin? It was such a beautiful alabaster! And you know… I just couldn’t help but think that she was probably having some very serious skin cancer problems, what with that beautiful skin and all you know. Anyway………the nurse finally called me in so, I put my magazine down and offered the Alabaster Lady my biggest, brightest smile. But… she still didn’t smile back. No response at all. I think she must have been very sad.”
Of course I sat and just listened to all of Dad’s story. It killed me not to explain to Dad about the mannequin, but instead I sat patiently and listened. I mean, my goodness, my father had created an entire existence around this stoic woman! Who was I to burst his bubble? Did it matter that the lady with the alabaster skin was made of plastic? On the other hand, I tried to reason with myself,…….what if the next time he goes to see Dr. Thompson, Dad actually goes up to the Alabaster Lady and speaks to her, takes her hand even, only to discover the truth! He’d undoubtedly read me the riot act for not telling him.
All of these thoughts swimming through my head, I smiled patiently as Dad kept on about the lovely Alabaster Lady. I had a bit of an internal struggle over what to do. I listened. I debated. I listened some more. I watched the twinkle in Dad’s eyes dance from thought to thought.
Then……I couldn’t stand it any longer. I placed my right hand gently on his left leg to interject, “Dad……..?”
He stopped talking and answered oh so innocently, “What?”
I hesitated, took a breath, then spoke, “Dad…….it’s a mannequin.”
“It’s a MAN!?”
“No Dad, it’s a maaaa-ne-qqqqquin.”
His expression went from confusion to amusement to delight, then, half-chuckling, “So it wasn’t me?!” Then he laughed, out loud, at everything—his attempt to flirt with a shopstore dummy, Dr. Thompson’s twisted sense of humor, the pure entertainment factor of the entire incident. We kept chuckling the whole way home.
