Every year, my daddy (Pokey) is amazed by the time change. For days, sometimes weeks, he will say, "This time yesterday..." or "This time last Thursday..." or similar. So, ever since we've been dating, Jimmy has called Pokey on the day after we spring-forward or fall-back to say (in his best impersonation of Pokey's voice), "Pokey, this time yesterday..." They joke and tease and enjoy their special bond formed through hours of fishing and hateful phone calls.
One time, not too long ago, Jimmy didn't get around to making the call. You'd have thought we had forgotten Pokey's birthday, or Christmas, or some other equally important holiday. There was much teasing and harrassing from everyone. Needless to say, we won't ever forget again!
Which brings me to my next point: I know I've pondered losing Daddy before and what that will be like. My sister, in all her martyrdom, was complaining about him this weekend (more on that later) and left a voicemail that ended with "Anyone want a father to take care of?" The obnoxious thing is that I would love to have my daddy closer and would even sell my house and buy a new one for him to move in with us, or help him find some sort of gradually-assisted living nearby, or whatever, but he'll never leave Southport now.
And one of these days, the time will change, and we'll go to call him, and he won't be able to take our call. Like Momma, he'll be conveniently unavailable. Dead, that is. On perpetual daylight savings time.
And despite whatever my sister might think, it will be a loss.
He recently had his knee replaced and can't wait to get the other one done. Well, despite some anemia and nausea, his recovery is coming along rather nicely for a 74 year old smoker who has always seemed fully a decade older than his real age. Then late last week, it started giving him exceptional grief. Millie took him to the ER yesterday, and sure enough, his kneecap is broken in half, with part of it floating north of its proper location and the other slightly south. Doc says it can only be repaired with another surgery, which will be sometime this week, I would imagine. There's this little anxious voice in my head that reminds me that he might not make it. Besides the obvious inconvenient kink his untimely death would throw in our crazy life schedule, it would also throw a wrench in the very works of my being. I'll be an orphan. Weird.
I've spent so much of my life preparing for Momma's death, that I haven't ever given the same level of thought to Pokey's. I always imagined he'd just lie down after a Nascar race on TV for a Sunday afternoon nap and not wake up. I've never thought about his funeral or what it would really be like without him. And honestly, this close to another surgery, I don't think I want to!
So, y'all pray for my Pokey. I'll be sure to let you know when he's out of surgery and back on his feet. Meanwhile, there's as much laundry to be done here as this time yesterday...
One time, not too long ago, Jimmy didn't get around to making the call. You'd have thought we had forgotten Pokey's birthday, or Christmas, or some other equally important holiday. There was much teasing and harrassing from everyone. Needless to say, we won't ever forget again!
Which brings me to my next point: I know I've pondered losing Daddy before and what that will be like. My sister, in all her martyrdom, was complaining about him this weekend (more on that later) and left a voicemail that ended with "Anyone want a father to take care of?" The obnoxious thing is that I would love to have my daddy closer and would even sell my house and buy a new one for him to move in with us, or help him find some sort of gradually-assisted living nearby, or whatever, but he'll never leave Southport now.
And one of these days, the time will change, and we'll go to call him, and he won't be able to take our call. Like Momma, he'll be conveniently unavailable. Dead, that is. On perpetual daylight savings time.
And despite whatever my sister might think, it will be a loss.
He recently had his knee replaced and can't wait to get the other one done. Well, despite some anemia and nausea, his recovery is coming along rather nicely for a 74 year old smoker who has always seemed fully a decade older than his real age. Then late last week, it started giving him exceptional grief. Millie took him to the ER yesterday, and sure enough, his kneecap is broken in half, with part of it floating north of its proper location and the other slightly south. Doc says it can only be repaired with another surgery, which will be sometime this week, I would imagine. There's this little anxious voice in my head that reminds me that he might not make it. Besides the obvious inconvenient kink his untimely death would throw in our crazy life schedule, it would also throw a wrench in the very works of my being. I'll be an orphan. Weird.
I've spent so much of my life preparing for Momma's death, that I haven't ever given the same level of thought to Pokey's. I always imagined he'd just lie down after a Nascar race on TV for a Sunday afternoon nap and not wake up. I've never thought about his funeral or what it would really be like without him. And honestly, this close to another surgery, I don't think I want to!
So, y'all pray for my Pokey. I'll be sure to let you know when he's out of surgery and back on his feet. Meanwhile, there's as much laundry to be done here as this time yesterday...
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