My sister and I know all too well what life is like for my father at ninety-one. It’s tough. Nothing is easy — nothing.
I try and call my father every day. Most days, like today, it rings until it goes to the recorded announcement saying he never set up his voicemail. Dad neither hears the ring nor feels the vibration. No one has certified him, but he’s certifiably deaf.
We speak only after he plugs a pair of earphones into his phone! Even then it’s iffy.
He and I didn’t speak yesterday. He couldn’t find his phone. It dropped and bounced under the sofa. It was barely hidden but might as well have been on Mars. The floor is out-of-reach.
A similar incident happened a few months back. He went to take something from the refrigerator and it slipped from his hands crashing to the floor. It stayed there until LaTonya returned Monday.
My dad tires quickly. Most phone conversations end when he says he’s out of steam just from talking.
It’s a tough life. His hands constantly quiver. He only has one eye. He watches TV with the volume off and the captions on.
He’s glad he’s alive!
Small things, like a phone call or email, mean a lot. Seeing his great-grandchildren sends him over the Moon. Happy. Elated. Proud. He’s waited a lifetime (and then some) for this payoff.
He’s got a bad chest cold at the moment. At 91 even a cold is serious. My sister and I huddled on the phone and made the recommendation to see the doctor. LaTonya will be taking him tomorrow.
He’s learned to adapt and cover his frailties. He also has a good support system, especially with LaTonya there nearly every day.
No matter how you slice it 91 is difficult.