Often when I am getting Dad into bed at night I flash back to a day nearly 50 years ago. Outside that same bedroom window, my brother and I were playing tackle football in the lush green grass on the side lawn. Just my brother and I. He was nearly five years older and had a considerable advantage in this simple game of hiking the ball to ourselves and then trying to rush ahead with it in a “field” only 10 yards wide. He always won, and I hated to lose, so I kept wanting to play, and I guess it was entertaining enough for him to go on with it.
But I guess I was a bit noisy, and Dad, who was working third shift that week was trying to sleep late in the afternoon. The Miami-style window slowly rolled open and Dad called for me to come in. This was the second or third time he had asked me to be quiet, but now he also wanted me to come inside. I obeyed and was horrified when he told me to lay down in bed beside him and not to get up until he was sound asleep. He seemed like a mean alien creature, half-naked, gruff, in no mind to relent. Funny that I recall that event so vividly this many years later. In a way it set an odd emotional tone in my relationship with him. Dad did shift work for nearly 40 years. Mom was around all the time but Dad would appear and disappear, sleep at odd hours, and always seem to be passing through instead of a permanent part of the landscape. Of course, I had no appreciation for the hard life he had, how much he disliked his work, and the sacrifices he always made for his family. I found it hard to be close to him, and given his relationship with his father, he had no example of paternal intimacy to follow.
Now, I sit next to him on his hospital bed at night. I put my arm around his shoulder and pull him close to me. He leans his head on my shoulder and sighs, sometimes relaxing. He tells me he loves me and I tell him I love him and that he is the best. He tells me I am a good boy. I raise the head of the bed up to a sitting position and put one arm behind his back and the other under his legs and lift him into his bed, carefully position him on his side, examine his troublesome toe, put a small pillow between his legs, and draw the bed covers up to his shoulders. I give him a kiss on his cheek and slowly speak, “Get a good rest tonight Dad, and have sweet dreams. I’ll come get you up for breakfast in the morning and we’ll go get something to eat together. I love you Dad. Good night.” Sometimes he also says ‘good night.’
Outside I can hear a small boy playing with his brother.