Worry

I called my dad a professional worrier. Many in his family are also professional worriers. I sort of inherited this talent - I don't think quite to the same extent though. Or at least over time I believe I have become less professional in my worry. Nevertheless, daddy worried that I worried too much and a few months ago wrote me an email that said: "I know that telling you not worry is like telling a bear not to shit in the woods."

Words of wisdom.

Thanks for the eloquence, dad.

Eulogy

I suppose as more memories come, I will post them, but for now I wanted to post a link to my other blog, where I wrote out the eulogy I gave for my dad who passed away on January 22nd.

Here it is: http://healthyattitudehappyliving.blogspot.com/2011/02/for-my-father.html

What Gets You Moving?

I got to watch the world's slowest exercise class at my dad's yesterday. Hell has frozen over officially: my dad was OUTSIDE and EXERCISING in a GROUP with OLD PEOPLE.

I found out the motivation: he thinks the physiotherapist looks like my mom from behind. This is not really all that hard to achieve, as your average *short* Québecoise (not the rare tall ones) all look the same from behind to me. They all have these horrible flat asses. I am so lucky I inherited a little black booty and not that flat shit. She walked by and my dad was like, "look, look! Doesn't it look the same?!" and I was like, "I don't really spend as much time looking at short white ladies' asses and you do, dad."

But whatever gets him moving, right?
Hey, some people set weight-loss targets and others look forward to seeing some flat ass. There aren't too many choices at the home.

And I can't talk. I don't exercise at all.

I got to watch my dad bike and walk today, which is pretty damn cool and amazing to see. He gets to march back and forth between parallel bars and the therapist is there to catch him if he drops. He is mostly hunched over, but he's doing it, so hey.

I feel like I kinda have a piece of my old dad back. The strong daddy who didn't give up. It's nice to see a bit of fight in him coming back, like he's finally not going to let this disease take him, literally, sitting down.

My dad and I both saw this news so he wrote me an email saying, "get me a bike!"

We spoke to his physiotherapist, who said sure, he can use the stationary bike at the home. He used it today for the first time. Then he got up and walked without a cane or walker and said he didn't feel off balance at all. All I can say is holy shit. He hasn't walked unaided since he was diagnosed nearly 4 years ago now. It's a temporary thing, but it's freakin' cool.

The Postcard Collection

My dad is a pack rat and I have had one heck of a time sorting through all his stuff, but one of the interesting things he collected are postcards. He started sometime in the early 60s, when he starting traveling and requested his friends send them to him from their travels. In addition, he bought himself one at every single city or landmark that he visited, marking on the back the date of the visit and the reason (usually army or cricket outings). So with all those, I'm thinking I'm going to try making a timeline and tracking his explorations.

Of more interest, maybe, are the ones with actual notes from friends. It's fun to see who wrote him most often, as well as the style of language that was used. Anyways, when I get around to sorting through them, I'll post it here, but run it by him first. He can fill in the blanks for me.

My Brain is Your Brain

My father asked me if I had started writing anything in anticipation of my classes. Y'know, for practice. I figured I wasn't going to write anything until I was told what to write about. In the end, I know he just wants me to do well, but man, if I ever set out to write a book, I better not tell him. Or maybe I should...seems like he still likes to keep tabs.

I told him about my blogs and he seemed concerned that they were up there for everyone to see. Then he asked how to get one. So I guess I have to get my dad a blog.

Is it ever weird having a teacher and writer father and being a teacher and writer myself? Hell yes. Now I suppose I also have to write, direct and act in a few plays and become an engineer while I'm at it. Oh daddy, how big your shoes are!

****

I spent all of Christmas Eve with him, cleaning the house, drinking tea, eating pizza and shooting the shit. Somewhere in all that, he showed me how to tell which way was up on the Union Jack. Random, sorta, but I was really happy he was still alive. I mean, sometimes I just wish I could keep his brain after he dies and ask it questions, because I haven't finished getting everything out of it yet. Frankly, I don't know if I ever could. But if I had his brain, maybe I'd have half a chance.
If I said, 'daddy, can I have your brain?', he'd tell me I already do.