The boss of big things

When he answered my knock he had his gardening gloves on and was looking for his floppy hat. He joins me on the small porch. His posture is more rag doll than soldier as he settles into the chair. He is happy to change directions and sit for a while with me, his only daughter.  The gardening can wait.

But I am deceiving him.  During the chit-chat about weather and flowers I am the one on the porch who knows that the conversation will soon cause a flash of anger.  He does not realize that this is a visit choreographed and rehearsed. I need some time alone with him to nudge him towards passing the responsibility of driving onto my mom.  

How to begin?  How do you tell the authority figure of your growing up years that he is no longer the one with authority?  He is angry.  Of course he is.  “But I have driven my whole life”, he argues.  “You are treating me like a baby.” My pleas to consider mom’s anxiety about keeping a watchful eye from the passenger seat leads to accusations that she is the one with the problem, not him.  I’m not buying it.  I have seen his driving enough to know that it is nothing like what it used to be. I have watched mom take over more and more responsibility while someone else’s hands are on the wheel. 

We sit in silence as I give him time to process my request. I am sure the quiet doesn’t match the noise in his head.  No matter how calmly and lovingly I frame this conversation, it is one that must make him see me as too bossy, too judgemental, too controlling.  I have stepped over that line we used to have that said that he was the one that calls the shots.

“You know” he states, “I used to be the boss of big things.”  My heart crumbles for him.  He is right.  He was a well respected high school principal.  He supervised a large staff and student body. He made difficult decisions daily. He dealt with union negotiations and kept a school going during a teacher’s strike.  My dad’s job was a source of both immense pride and irritation during my teenage years. It’s hard being a principal’s kid. They know too much.  

And now, in a tragic role-reversal, it is hard for him to be my father.  I know too much too.  I know that his dementia is taking away his reasoning and judgement. I know that he is slower to react, faster to get confused and sometimes struggles to make sense of the world around him. We sit quietly in the thick fog that a worn down brain creates in a room. I carefully watch his sad eyes and long for the days of watching wonder-eyed as my daddy navigated the world of big things like a boss.