Dancing with Dad

My father is over 90-years-old and today, I accompanied him to another funeral. These occasions are becoming more frequent and emotionally harder for him. Most of his friends are a decade, if not more, younger than him, as was the friend who died this week.

I know all my dad's mates. They are the youthful men of my childhood; their now middle-aged children were my playmates. Funerals are some of the only times I see them. We turn up knowing the formula: the apologies among the living for not catching up more often, the sea of dark clothes that ripples as the attendees move and join in the rituals of goodbye. The inevitable question: how to sum up a life in a few minute's eulogy?

Dad's hands shake as he holds the service booklet. His friend's face smiles from the cover. On the back, his friend is pictured as a sombre young man. The few sheets of paper in between try to hold together the story of the years that connect the two images. 

Dad leans to me. "I saw him a little while ago. He didn’t look well.' His voice cracks as he goes on. 'He said to me, Friend, I think they're coming for me.' He turned away, gulping back tears.

We don't always know when death will come but at Dad's age, it's closer than most. I have no idea of what it feels like for him to attend a funeral. I can only imagine the thoughts and emotions that engulf him. Overly protective, I flounder trying to work out how to ease his distress. All I can do is rest a hand on his shoulder. It feels inadequate.

In the seat ahead of us, a young mother wrangles a toddler. He looks to be about 13-months-old and he's just found his feet. He explores the world, gurgling happily, while those around him mourn. Suddenly he notices Dad and stretches his arms towards him.

Dad reaches to pick him up.

The bub's mother whispers, 'He's too heavy.'

Dad shakes his head and mouths it's okay then collects him in his arms.

The toddler explores my father's face with his hands, trying to lift off Dad's glasses, using a language all of his own. Dad offers the child his thumb, which the toddler readily grabs and they press their cheeks together, pretending to dance. The toddler laughs. Dad's face glows as he smiles.

Just as suddenly, the bub turns back his mum and leans toward her. As his mother cuddles him, he smiles broadly and watches Dad over her shoulder.  

In that small space of time, Dad's tears ease.

It reminded me of something a friend told me years ago—that babies bring their own love to the world. I wonder if that bub sensed a need in Dad, who was a stranger to him.

I'd like to think that my friend's theory about babies' love was right; that somehow the love had stretched across the nearly ninety years between this baby and my father, and given Dad a few moments' comfort.

As the mourners surged out of the church, the toddler and his mum were swallowed into the crowd. We didn't see them again.

Maybe we'll see them at the next funeral.

I hope he and Dad will dance.

I'm happy. Who knew?

The other day, as I took out the rubbish, lifted the lid of the wheelie bin to be met with the unpleasant stench of waste that was fermenting in the heat of Melbourne’s late summer, it occurred to me that it was an unlikely circumstance in which to have the revelation that I was happy. I say revelation because it came to me like that: I’m happy. Garbage isn’t usually conducive to feeling good about things. In fact it’s often the opposite, reminding me of everything that's not working, and rotten in my world and the world at large. But, no. On this evening, I had completed my post-dinner chores and was thinking about all the things that were right in my life.

I'm blessed with a loving partner, great kids, a gorgeous grandchild, still have my lovely elderly dad close by and my brain and body are still working. Sort of. On the other side of the ledger there are a number of things that aren’t so good in my world, but I figure focusing on them just makes them appear bigger. Don’t get me wrong, I'm no ostrich with my head in the sand. As someone once told me “You like to meet reality head on!”. I'm a great believer in taking responsibility for yourself, getting into therapy if needed, making changes where necessary even though it’s painful. I'm not always good at it, but I've learned not to be afraid of it. I can’t change the things in my life that are outside my power, but I should work on discerning what is and isn’t within my ambit and dealing with it. 

So what made me smell the roses instead of the garbage? I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps in in part it’s what ‘Twelve Step’ programs refer to as the ‘cultivating the attitude of gratitude’. I've reached an age where I still want to keep learning and improving, but I also have a better sense of what I've already achieved, even if those achievements are modest. No matter what problems I have, I wouldn’t swap my life with anyone. I'm contented, I'm grateful, and therefore I'm happy. I'm starting to appreciate that big revelations often come in the most mundane and unexpected circumstances: doing the washing, at a funeral and yes, even within whiff of the wheelie bin.