I want to wear it like Dad

My dad
Photo by Matilda Angus

I have had very few reasons in my life to feel proud of my dad. One being his truly beautiful singing voice. I loved standing next to him during church services and hear him take the tenor confidently and with the greatest of ease. In different circumstances he could have made it in the music world.

But mostly, our lives were ruled by my father’s struggle with his demons: an inferiority complex and a terribly short temper. Looking back, I honestly don’t know whether we moved so many times because Dad was trying to better our lives with better positions and a better income, or whether he got into another scrap with his superiors and decided to move on.

Yet for all his shortcomings, I now know he tried his utmost to provide for his family and he was a trustworthy employee. Also, he raised us the best he could on principles he believed in based on his strict religious views.

But these things don’t stir up pride in a child or teenager’s heart. My relationship with my father had been troubled for most of my life, to say the least.

This changed a few years back as I found release from the anger I felt towards him. (My poor little Ego) Now I feel deep compassion and love for him. I enjoy spending time with him. And this may come as a surprise but he is making me proud.

He turned eighty earlier this year and although his mind is still mostly clear, he has medical conditions that make it difficult for him to function normally. He lives in a frail care facility as he has mild dementia which causes him to be hyperactive and with obsessive compulsive behaviour especially where food is concerned. Also he has prostate problems that make him incontinent and therefore has to wear adult nappies.  

When he comes to visit over weekends, one of the highlights is to draw him a nice warm bath and let him soak in it for as long as he wishes. I have to help him undress, help him into the bath and then help him out again, dry and dress him. He allows all of this without the slightest self-consciousness. He helps by buttoning his own shirt and is quite adept at putting on his own shoes.

When it comes to putting on the nappy, he holds it in the front for me so I can easier fasten the tabs from the back. Again with no complaint and not a trace of shame.  

Now this may seem strange, but as we went through the bath ritual this morning, I felt such pride for him in how he handles and accepts his precarious life. All through my life I have not seen him as happy as he is now, even in the condition he finds himself in.  

This morning, as I fastened the nappy, I made up my mind: I want to be like my dad. I want to one day wear it like he does.

Matilda