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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link="#0563C1" vlink="#954F72"><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal>A Day with Dad Counting Blessings<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Marcia J. Wick, the Write Sisters<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Copyright June 2017<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Word Count: 760<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>My husband eases the car up to the curb in front of the church and I scramble out, already chasing after my aging parents. “Wait for me,” I call out, grabbing Dad’s elbow before he can escape. “You are my guide today, remember?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>It is a mixed blessing; Dad doesn’t remember that I am now blind. He also has forgotten what he ate for breakfast, what day it is, the names of my children and our plans for dinner after church. He does, however, recall the ritual of going to Mass with Mom each week, and it is my turn to accompany them. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Dad with Alzheimer’s and Mom with Macular Degeneration no longer drive, thank the Lord, but neither do I with my own poor vision. I have my husband drop us off, take off for take-out, and return to fetch us after an hour.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>As we navigate up the steps to the entry, my diminutive Mom at 90 flutters behind me and Dad, first to my left, then to his right, pointing out the railings to each side. We must make a picture, I muse, the blind leading the blind behind the oblivious.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Dad pushes me and Mom ahead, insisting on holding the door for the ladies, then he gets stuck as the doorman for another dozen churchgoers. Finally relieved of his duty, Dad lets go of the handle and shuffles forward so slowly that the door catches him as it closes. He lets out a small cry of confusion as he struggles through the shrinking passageway. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“Ever the gentleman,” I say while rescuing Dad and thanking God that he didn’t get hurt. “Remember, we need to take the elevator,” I remind Mom, steering Dad away from the staircase. Dad normally insists on taking the stairs, but at 92 with a mild case of bronchitis, he is weak and at greater risk of falling. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Exiting the elevator, I am relieved to hear a familiar voice. The friendly usher greets Mom and Dad saying, “How’s the young couple doing?” I count my blessings and put the next part of my strategy into play. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal> “Can you help us, please? We need two things; if you could get Dad one of those cards to put into the offertory basket saying he ‘already gave,’ and then if you could please help us find a seat…” I trail off, praying Mom and Dad will “cooperate” and let the assistant assist us. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>I am hoping our guide will distract my parents from the usual loud debate at the back of the church, but God apparently has other plans.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“Barbara, pick a pew,” My Dad starts in.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“Dad, let the man help us pick a seat today,” I say, pushing him ahead by the elbow. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“I’m not picking our seat,” Mom hisses. “You’ll say you can’t hear.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“I want you to pick our seat,” he retorts, nudging Mom’s shoulder.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“Dad, follow the man,” I insist. “Mom, please, start walking,” I plea. Hoping our guide is still within earshot, I tell him, “About the third or fourth row on the left would be perfect.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>We work our way clumsily into the pew, Dad insisting Mom and I go first, ladies before gentlemen, of course. I plunk myself down on the hard bench, relieved that not much can challenge me for the next hour. Stand, kneel, sit. Stand, kneel, sit. I follow the traditional progression of the Mass out of habit. <o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>Mom and Dad are determined to exert their independence at every turn. The problem is at every turn they could use some help. As the Offertory approaches, I remind Dad about his card for the basket. The prior month, we were not prepared - when the basket came Dad’s way, he shoved it back at the usher announcing loudly, “I already gave!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal>“It’s okay, Dad, just pass it on,” I urged, reaching past him, willing the basket to find its way into my open hand. I also remembered to make sure Dad was wearing his hearing aids before leaving the house this time. Last month, when the visiting priest started mumbling his sermon, Dad had shouted, “I can’t hear him. What is he saying?” Whispering into Dad’s ear to my right, I promised to fill him in after church, while Mom to my left fussed at us to keep quiet. What a spectacle we were. This Sunday, it is the regular priest and Dad’s hearing aids are in place, thank the Lord. Church must be good for me, I reflect, as I find myself praying once again.<o:p></o:p></p><p class=MsoNormal><o:p> </o:p></p></div></body></html>