Sitting with Dad

“Bill, I have to go somewhere for a couple of hours. Can you stay with Dad for a bit?”

My stepmother’s call came as a surprise on this humid summer evening. Dad had helped me more times than I could count. He taught me so much, from how to do things to loving my family. But he did more than teach me things.

He was there for me. After Mom and Dad divorced during my childhood, he scrupulously observed his visitation rights. On the few times when I was sick and couldn’t go with him, he always came in to see me and brought some little trifle for my comfort. As an adult, he was there when I needed a hand with one car after another. And he never complained.

Now, Dad was sick. Pulmonary fibrosis took away everything—strength, mobility, independence—and he needed my help. After all these years of his doing things for me, I could be there for him.

“Absolutely. What day and what time do need me?”

On the appointed day, Dolores led me into the living room. “Thanks for coming. I won’t be long. Just a couple of hours or so.”

“Aw, I’m happy to be here.” We entered the living room and I saw my father. “Hi, Dad.”

He looked up at me from his wheelchair and smiled, but his voice came in a faint wheeze. “Hi, Bill.”

I lifted a bag. “I know it’s hard for you to speak with your oxygen and all, so I brought a movie and some popcorn. And when we get thirsty, we’ll have some cherry lime-aid.

Dad’s face glowed and we settled in for a comfortable evening together, one that he enjoyed and one that I’ll never forget.

My father passed away about five months later.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.