This morning I observed my father become confused again. 95 years of knowledge and experience proving weak in resisting the simple uncertainties of whether or not he should close his bedroom door.
Or open it.
Or close it.
Or open it and then close it once more.
He was noticeably struggling with the undemanding decision placed before him. A decision he makes multiple times each day. In this moment, as daylight began contemplating its own awakening, he stood alone and uncertain. Alone and dismayed.
Instincts told me to jump up, to solve, to fix.
Instead I held back and observed a man who has personified hard work and modeled taking care of others weakening by the most difficult decision of this still-dark morning. He is proud. once rugged. Powerful in presence but now vulnerable and broken down in every single way.
He looked left. Then right. Then up. Then down.
Left, then right again. His hands become a momentary discovery. But then he looked left, then right.
Does he open it?
Or close it?
Or open it and then close it?
His gait is now non-existent. Reduced to a shuffle-step composed of chaotic scraping and sandpaper-soft pacing, his companion walker provides a certain, ironic freedom. His pride tethers him to a device keeping him hobbled, bent, but upright. He keeps moving. He keeps pushing forward. He cuts a path away from the impending stillness he seeks to avoid.
Without it though, he is humbled. Childlike. He rests very still, often huddled in a fetal position that reveals a cyclical span of life few can claim to have experienced.
95 years.
Loved ones here and gone. Memories vanishing on an almost daily basis. Time lacking structure or meaning. Names jumbled, made up. Even his sight, which should offer light and opportunity, succumbs to a clouded, darkened hue, creating new obstacles increasingly harder and more challenging to overcome.
And yet, he keeps walking. And keeps deciding.
Open it or close it.
Open it. Or close it.