One son’s ailing father reminds him to take a different look at the health care debate.
My dad was what we used to call “a man’s man” – built like a truck, loud and funny, expert in civil engineering and American history. Nothing scared him. He loved crowds, and he was instantly the life of many a party. He could argue God out of Sunday. When he retired fifteen years ago, he bought a kit from a company in Maine and built his own lakeside cabin. The whole thing. I imagine even the loons and moose found him entertaining.
Over a year ago, Dad was diagnosed with Corticobasal Degeneration. Doctors said it’s a progressive neurological disorder, characterized by poor coordination, rigidity, speech trouble and dysphagia (difficulty swallowing). When I saw him in Maine this summer, he seemed frightened and depleted. His eyes were closed much of the time; and he said he doesn’t get to the cabin much. Eventually, he knows, he’ll be unable to walk.
My dad understands what’s happening. And he knows that it’s happening fast. Neurologists say there’s no effective treatment. Rigidity, dysphagia: they’re like unwanted houseguests with no intention of leaving. In fact, more of them are coming. It kills me to see him like this, vulnerable and sad, no longer certain he can beat all comers.
A few days before his own death, the great novelist William Saroyan quipped: “Everybody has to die, but I always believed an exception would be made in my case.” Maybe we all feel that way about our dads – they seem eternal, indomitable, exceptions to the rule. I watch my dad in his recliner – weeping for the past, then howling at the TV – and I can’t escape the truth. Vulnerability. Sickness. Mortality. It’s the address where we live. All of us.
Strangely, we were able to do things we’d never done, my dad and I. He wept, and I held his hand. I grilled a steak for him, medium-well, the way he likes it. I walked him to bed and helped him get undressed. As terrible as it is, his illness invites a kind of gentleness into our lives. We’re saying things we’ve never said before. Good things.
This summer’s healthcare debate seems tragically lost in a hurricane of rhetoric, venom and fear. Maybe it’s time to unplug for a while. Log off and tune out. FOX News and CNN can survive without us. Anyway, we’re so much more than i-phones, laptops and cable TV. We’re human and frail, bundles of dreams and bones, and, the truth is, we’ll all know suffering eventually. What we should be talking about are our vulnerabilities and responsibilities. What we should be talking about are American ethics and values. Do we want to bear one another’s burdens, or not? Do we want to weep together and suffer together, or not? I suggest that the true genius of a society is revealed in the answers to these questions. All the ranting in the world won’t change that. Do we want to bear one another’s burdens, or not?
My dad always taught me that the answer is yes. I look at him now – and I know he was right.
Dave Grishaw-Jones is Senior Minister at First Congregational Church, the United Church of Christ in Santa Cruz.
