* * *
December
24, 1943
My Dearest Ed,
Momma
and Daddy, Lydia, Dottie, and I just came home from Christmas Eve service. I
couldn’t hold back my tears while singing ‘Silent Night’ in the candlelight.
Lydia
went straight from church to Peter’s family’s gathering. I know she aches for
him. I miss you terribly, and wish you were here. It doesn’t relieve my sadness
hearing Bing Crosby’s ‘I’ll be home for Christmas.’
Don’t
misunderstand, I thank God you’re not shipped out yet, and I pray for all our
soldiers in danger overseas. But I long for you.
It’s
been said that people in love are not sensible. We are the exception to that
rule. I waited for you, a prize package. You are such a wonderful optimist
about the war ending soon. You are so good to me––so considerate, kind, and
thoughtful. Your faith is strong, dear, and I love you with all my heart.
I’m lonesome, honey. I wish you were
home for Christmas, even though I know we’ll always be together, ‘if only in
our dreams.’
Yours forever,
Ibby
P.S.
I hope the slipper socks I knitted arrived in time for Christmas.
* * *
August 11, 2006
This
morning as I prepared for today’s appointment with the gerontologist, I was at
ease knowing the doctor would prescribe a move. Jitters still plagued me,
however, because Mom and Dad didn’t want to go to this appointment, and I knew
they might refuse to come out of the house to get in the car with me.
When I arrived,
they agreed to go without a fight. We made polite conversation throughout the
40 minute drive. As we arrived at the doctor’s office we were ushered into the
same conference room where they received their diagnosis four months earlier.
They sat with a stoic, tight-lipped, curt demeanor. The doctor greeted them in
a friendly, professional way and inquired about how they’re doing. Mom cleared
her throat and nodded. Dad responded with only a nod and a side-glance.
Without delay, the
doctor started writing and explaining medical prescriptions for Dad.
·
The first stated, “Help required with medications, finances, and daily living or move
to a retirement community.”
·
The second mandated, “Obtain new driving evaluation, or stop
driving.”
Mom and Dad hung
their heads shaking them, first with wide eyed I-can’t-believe-it sadness, then
squinting with how-dare-you denial. Mom became snotty, defending her man, and
Dad was infuriated and disrespectful. They huffed and sputtered, their speech
not making any sense, both trying to put words together to make sentences,
neither able.
The doctor stood
and moved toward the door to make a quick exit, holding the door for us,
reminding them, “Focus on what you can do, not what you can’t.” Intended this
as constructive advice––to Ed and Ibby’s hurt, angry ears––it sounded
condescending and trite.
I stood, helping
my parents to their feet. Putting my arm around Mom, we exited the office with
Dad behind.
As I led them through the hallway, guilt followed me. I
knew these prescriptions were issued not only because of my parents’ diagnosis,
but also because of my pleas for help.
As we walked
through the outer office, no further appointments were made. There was no need.
In silence, we
made our way home.
As I drove,
thoughts swirled in my head. I was relieved and thankful the doctor had
supported Annette and me in this critical decision. Overwhelmingly though, I was heartbroken for my parents because
everything they’ve known of independence for sixty-two years of marriage would
now change because of these three pieces of paper, known as medical
prescriptions. Annette and I could now say that the move was ‘doctor’s orders.’ I
felt like an empowered coward...
