by Hazel Webb

Created on: July 01, 2008   Last Updated: April 23, 2009

In my wildest dream, I never imagined that both of my parents would end up living under my roof. Isn't life funny? It is not important as to how this came to be. However, what is important is the loving care, sense of security, safety and the effort I put into their care. Initially, dad moved in with my son and me. It was great having him here, especially since he was a much better cook than I was. Mmm... to this day, I can still smell his fried potatoes simmering in onions. Anyways, we enjoyed his company. The extra money he gave me helped in a hundred different ways. Right from the start, dad insisted on paying his own way. Sure, I had to give up my plans to turn the extra bedroom into my private little office. As a kid, I dreamed of going into my office and writing earth shaking newspaper and magazine articles.

He was in good shape, although several years earlier, he had suffered a mild stroke. Fortunately, dad was able to continue his active life. Dad was retired and spent most of his time just taking it easy, chitchatting with his childhood friends. Several blocks from our house, the "old timers" had a spot where they faithfully gathered to discuss world issues and just kick the breeze. I never worried about him being gone so long, I always knew where to find him.

Often the two of us would sit up until the wee hours of the morning. We talked, debated and did lots of laughing. At times, one or both of us had to call time out so that we could wipe away tears or hold our stomach from laughing so hard. I guess we both have this weird little since of humor. The stories and jokes we made up on other family members were hilarious, or so we thought.

The strong and independent dad that I knew disappeared one cold January night. Dad suffered another stroke. I returned from grocery shopping and found dad unable to talk or move. It took me a few minutes to realize something was seriously wrong. I thought he had just drunk one to many beers. I had just dropped dad off and was surprised that he beat me home.

With my heart in my stomach, I waited in the intensive care waiting room. Every couple of hours we could see him for a few minutes. Those were the longest and darkest seconds, minutes and hours of my entire life. Something in me died that night. Perhaps it was the sense of security my dad gave me. All my life, I had known, my dad was there and he always made things OK for me. It did not matter that I was an adult. I was still his baby, his first-born.

Fortunately,

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