(2012 birthday meal at Brewhaus to remember what curry wurst tasted like from Ted’s days in Berlin in the 1960’s)

Today is my dad’s 72nd birthday. I called him this afternoon, asked how he was doing and if he knew today was his birthday. He seemed surprised – no, he said, he thought it was a few days away. He said he’d been napping most of the day and watching TV with his cat, Skoozal. I asked if he’d like me to come by and bring him some groceries this evening (something I do every week or so and make sure he’s taking his medicine). He seemed happy at the prospect and would see me around 7pm.

This is not where I thought I would be as I look towards being a mother. Although my dad and I have had a whirlwind of a ride together, I always expected him to be overjoyed to help me with my child. He would use a high pitched baby voice to talk to our cats growing up and always referred to himself as their grandfather. All of my friends from elementary and high school can attest to this fact.

When I was a step-parent to the boys, Ted came by and played soccer with them and let them read to him. He seemed interested and was sweet but told me it would be a different situation when I had my own child.  He didn’t know where he fit in this step-grandchild situation.

A few years ago, Ted got drunk (as usual) around Thanksgiving and fell down a flight of stairs at his house, alone. When he called to tell me he wouldn’t make it to the dinner I’d cooked for him and his mother, he said he’d hurt his arm so I brushed it off and offered to bring leftovers by the next day when he insisted that he was fine. When I went by the next day, I found him banged up so badly we went to the hospital where we found out he’d broken 3 ribs, his collar bone and wrist. No one thought to check his head. When the doctor asked him questions about what had happened, he didn’t have answers. It got chalked up to 30+ years of drinking and drug use.

But what had really happened was somewhere in there, he’d hit his head and had a brain bleed. It wasn’t until I took him to my doctor (now his doctor as well) that anyone thought to check. By then, thankfully, it had begun to heal on it’s own, but it was the beginning of a couple of rough years as I had to start taking care of him and his mother, who was growing worse with Alzheimer’s daily.

Now, 3 years later, my grandmother has passed away and Ted lives at home without a car to drive to the liquor store daily and is forcibly sober. There is no way to say if the fall sped up his dementia (both of his parents suffered through it) or if this was just how it was going to happen.

We’ve had our ups and downs from my childhood through recent years, but he’s my dad and I’m his only child, so I do what I am able to do to keep him happy and safe.

Tonight I sat and thought about how gut wrenching it is that he will likely not be involved in my child’s life. I’ll bring the baby to visit him, but he won’t be able to watch or spend time with the baby alone.

He has said I was the best thing he’s ever done. He tells me he loves me and is proud of me every time I speak to him. He says I’m everything he should have been and that I’m only the best parts of him and my mother combined. I do not doubt my importance in his life. He’s told me many times that the only religious experience he ever had was one night holding me as a tiny baby and I began to glow with a bright light. He said he had asked God repeatedly to show him evidence of his existence – and that night he saw.

No one is perfect and he has not been a model father, son or husband. But he has such a heart and he loves so strongly that I wish my child would get to experience it. And for Ted’s sake, I hope he has a chance to be there with his grandchild as well – in whatever capacity that is. He will be there in spirit even if he’s not there mentally or physically, but it’s a real heart breaker.