A Father’s Love, Wallet-Sized

School picture day is a big deal when you’re in third grade. At least it was for me. I wore my favorite dress—polyester with short sleeves, a square neckline and an empire waist. The skirt was brown and the bodice, slim horizontal stripes in brown and orange. An orange bow (no tails) adorned the front where the two fabrics met. As you can see from the photo, I had freckles and the classic 1967 mom-cut: a pyramidal chop with too-short bangs. Dad always said I resembled his grandma, but everyone else said I looked like him.

Ten days ago my 87-year-old dad was admitted to the hospital with a severe systemic infection. For most of that time, I was scared and thought he would die. But he’s a fighter. The doctors told Dad he was recovering better and faster than anyone expected. It looks like he’ll be discharged in a day or so to skilled nursing for rehab and then go back home to his apartment. Thank God for the staff at the Harry S. Truman VA Hospital in Columbia, Missouri. Thank God for Dad’s positive attitude. Thank God I have a flexible schedule and a support system—both provide me the time and energy to visit Dad and talk with his multidisciplinary care team.

Dad often quotes one of his sisters. She used to say, “It’s one of those,” sort of an “Oh well, what can you do?” What, indeed. I learn from Dad. He thanks the nursing staff, asks people how their day is going, shows concern when a worker is grumpy or has a bandaged hand. Naps between needle pokes and blood pressure readings. Reads thrillers and reminds me to “say hey” to my husband.

So here we are, December 2021. This 2 x 3 photo is still in my dad’s wallet, along with snapshots of Mama at 22 in a tight skirt and me at my college graduation. The plastic sleeves are yellowed and cracked, smudged with fingerprints. Clearly the picture of love.