Date: 12/26/22
Training Day: Week 8, Day 1
Miles: Nada
Mobility/Stretching: Nope
Ate Well: Not really

Commentary: Monday morning and early afternoon we lounged about, soaking up the last few hours with my dad. The plan was to leave on Tuesday, but an incoming weather system moved up our departure to Monday afternoon. I had mixed feelings as we drove away from my dad’s.

I am my father’s daughter. In my 20s I preferred going to him with any life problems, and I cherished his advice. But my dad was raised believing that once your kid moved out of the house, they had their own lives to live, and the parents could live their empty-nest lives. Being a wee wild in my younger years, this suited me just fine. Now that I’m older, and more importantly, now that my dad is older, I feel we squandered many good years.

Now my father is old. He can barely hear, and for the past decade has talked of getting a hearing aid but has yet to get one. He tells the same stories over and over and over and over again – on the same day. Sometimes within the same hour. I don’t know if it’s because of his hearing or his mind, but he doesn’t ask anyone any questions about themselves. He never asks how my job is, our adventures, or if anything new is going on in my life. He doesn’t even ask my sister about his granddaughter.

The hurt part of me tends to take over and chooses not to tell him about what’s going on with me, justifying it by believing he’d ask if he actually cared. As we drove away from my old dad I burst into tears. He’s old. And he is who he is. I can’t change him, but I can do better. I vowed to send him photos and write him letters (he can see and read, he just can’t hear) at least once a month. Regardless of my hurt feelings, my dad deserves to know what’s going on in my life. After all, he’s my dad.

I also miss my dad. It’s not because I don’t get to see him often enough. Even when I’m with him, I miss him. He’s not the same man he was 15 years ago. We used to have real conversations. He used to tell me stories about his younger years, not just the same old stories about the cats and the critters.

Now, I get impatient, irritated, and frustrated when he tells me for the hundredth time about Sylvia, the mama cat, and how she came to the house and had her kittens. The same story I’ve heard every single time I’ve talked to him since 2016. The same story I hear multiple times a day when I visit him. I have to take a step back and remind myself he’s not doing it maliciously. Then I remind myself to be grateful.

I’m grateful he’s still alive. I’m grateful he has a wonderful girlfriend who makes him happy. I’m grateful he still has his memory and knows who I am. I’m grateful he’s the great guy he is now and not the angry man who raised me as a kid. I’m grateful I live close enough to easily visit him. I’m grateful he’s healthy. I’m grateful he’s my dad.

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