“You know,” my dad began, “at my age you can do just about anything.”
It’s true. When you’re ninety everyone wants to be nice. My flirtatious father couldn’t say what he says if he was younger… like in his seventies.
He came down from the plane in a wheelchair, but walked from baggage claim across the street and into the garage, then from the elevator to the car. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen him walk that far.
After we got home and Stef joined us from H’wood, we walked again. I just measured it — around 1/4 mile. Tonight before bed he basically sprinted up-the-stairs.
This turnaround is the result of his heart valve replacement. Finally, after too many years, he’s pumping enough blood to keep his heart happy.
He’s been under anesthesia five times since December. That doesn’t sound good, except they fixed him. How cool is that?
He is not, however, immunized. After clearing him to fly, Dad’s doctor reminded him to remember he’s ninety.
My father is not what you think of when you think of ninety. He is sharp. He tells jokes and tells (and retells) stories. He is engaged in conversation.
He’s tethered to his iPad. Tech does not scare him, though he complains about the intricacies of learning to use anything which needs you to follow directions.
We only have him down here a few weeks. We plan on showing him a good time. It’s my understanding there’s even a trip to Costco in his short term future.