Sahkurahhhh....

My family is not a demonstratively affectionate one. We're not even very good at verbally expressing our affections, though we've gotten better with age, like a fine wine. I know this may sound like bullshit, but what we DO do really well is silently connect with each other. My brothers and I do it really well. My kids and I do it really well. My dad and I do it constantly, between the phrases we have to repeat to each other until Dad finally hears what is being said, during or at the end of a crisis with Mom, as a kind of punctuation to whatever drama she has just created. Some times, Dad and I have these moments when he and I have this completely non-verbal exchange that happens underneath whatever is going on around us. Some times, like today, I don't like what he doesn't say to me.

Something's wrong with the way Dad's body uptakes calcium. He takes daily calcium, and his blood calcium levels are normal, but his bones are getting little, if any, of it. And so, his bones continue to become more and more porous. His bones are so osteoporotic now that his bone density numbers are off the chart. The osteo doc can't believe he hasn't fallen, or just crumbled. (I don't dare tell her Dad still hobbles out to the barn once a week, gets on the mower-tractor and mows the entire half-acre.)

In an effort to find out why the calcium isn't getting to his bones, Dad had to do a 24 hr urine collection starting yesterday and then give a blood sample. The doc's checking for creatinine levels now because she apparently is thinking Dad's kidneys are misbehaving. So Dad and I packed up his urine container, chilled in a cooler, and headed into the Sequim lab this afternoon.

But some things were different today. The leaving was the same. I said, "Time to go!" Dad said, "Okay!", put down the newspaper, got out of his recliner, wheeled his walker into the dining room, exchanged it for his cane, put on his jacket, slowly exited the dining room, walked through the garage, and then got into the car. But then....... as we headed out the driveway, Dad pulled out a tiny little brown bottle and said, "Do you know what this is?"

I looked at the label, "Dad that's nitroglycerin! Why do you have that?"

He explained very carefully, seriously, instructively, "If I have a heart attack, put one of these on my tongue three times."

Pause as I process.

"Okay."

Then he continued. "The doc gave me these about ten years ago........I just found them in my drawer this morning...........I'd forgotten about them. So.......Just so ya know....."

"Okay."

Another pause as I process.

Then I say, "Are they still good?"

Dad chuckles. "I guess we'll find out."

Then I chuckle back. "Yeah.......I'll let you know." (as I make a mental note to find out the shelf-life of nitroglycerin)

That was the first thing that happened.

Then, when we got to the lab and were walking in (at the same place where Dad, last week, smugly challenged Mom to a race), something else happened. Dad had to stop. Three times. I asked him if he was okay. He said, "Oh sure....Just tired." We continued on into the lab. Handed over the urine container. He gave blood. We were done in less then 15 minutes, heading back out toward the car again...

And Dad had to stop again. Three times. Again. I asked him, "You okay?"

He said, "Yeahhhh.....But I think in a couple of years........... I should use the walker all the time." (YEARS! He actually said, "...a couple of YEARS")

I said, "Dad, I think maybe TODAY would be a good time to start using the walker all the time."

"Yeah," he agreed. He sounded so tired.

Then we got into the car and headed home, past the "Poor Ole' Horse" that Dad, today, noticed and said, "Oh they got a new horse!" and I just chuckled to myself.

And I couldn't stop thinking that Dad seemed.....different today. Like he was.......well, like he was sort of......giving up. Or at least thinking of giving up. Then I couldn't stop picturing Dad in my head......... in his prime, getting up every morning, swimming laps in the pool, working all day in the avocado grove, flying 747s for American Airlines, riding horses with me, always robust, always fit, always the picture of optimum health. And then I had one of those reality-check moments when my eyes-well up as my brain battles briefly with the sadness of inevitable ends. I hate reality checks. They piss me off.

We sat in silence the rest of the drive home. Dad softly sang a Japanese melody, "Sahkurah...Sahkurahhhh..."

We pulled back into the driveway, parked, and Dad got out, shuffled back through the garage and into the house, took off his jacket, exchanged his cane for his walker, wheeled back into the living room where Mom was waiting, sat back in his recliner, and resumed reading the newspaper.