“He’s tired.” That was my sister giving me the tl:dr on my dad’s trip east. The plane was late leaving LAX then LAS. It didn’t make up any time on-the-way to Milwaukee.
He should be tired. We ran him ragged.
“You know, Geoffrey,” he’d say, “you really don’t have to do anything to entertain me.”
I know. I still felt guilty.
This was his most active few weeks in many years. We walked. We went out. Even going for ice cream last night was a good thing. He needs to keep moving.
There’s a woman at his complex who leads a daily walk through the halls. He says he’ll join in. I hope so.
What we did on-the-ground in Irvine made a profound difference in his stamina. He still gets tired and taxed, but not as quickly. He made three roundtrips upstairs yesterday. When he first came he was scared doing the stairs once.
My dad grew fond of Doppler over his three weeks. He’d sit on the couch and look down as Doppler came into view. “Come here pussycat,” he’d say. And she did.
Sunday morning it’s brunch for him with the full Milwaukee branch of the family. We cannot compete with great grandchildren.