Tomorrow my father goes to the oncologist to find out what else--if anything--they can try to do to prevent the continuing spread of his cancer. It doesn't look good, though. He's been sick and unhappy all week. And my poor mother--I never knew what a strong person she could be until now. I've nearly gone back to my unconditional childhood admiration for her. Back to the days when I wanted to be just like her. It's kind of funny how much I've been reminded of my similarities to my folks lately, after years of being angry at them for about so many things.
While visiting my father in the hospital a few weeks ago, my mother and I found that both of us, while caring for my father, also had very strong urges to walk around and help all of the other patients on the ward, in the hospital. Especially the ones who were all alone, with no family and no hope. I could not help but ask each of my father's roommates--the nearly unconscious Black man with no visitors whom my asshole of a brother made some racist comment in front of, the sweet young Michigan man who offered help to my father when we weren't able to be there, whose humor and patience belied his desperate wait for a heart transplant, and the senile 70-something year old, hard of hearing man with a Kentucky accent so thick we could barely communicate, his only visitors some humble distant relatives who came from some far away farm--if they needed anything. Or if they were in pain or lonely, we would be happy to summon the nurse, talk to them for a few moments, or offer to fetch them books or magazines or food.
No wonder I ended up a social worker.
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