There Is A Country for Old Men
Where the Old Warrior Looks Up & Finds That Death Has Been Defeated by Denyse O’Leary
Years ago, a woman I knew told me that her father’s death had created a sort of hole in her world. I said that when my own father dies, it will be like waking up to see that a mountain range in the distance has suddenly disappeared. That was how one of my close friends, whose father lost his hearing going over Vimy Ridge nearly a century ago, described the effect of his death in 1983.
Why should women on the verge of old age think as we do about very aged fathers? Partly because our fathers had fought in the World Wars. In subtle ways, our families were defined by those wars. People who asked about our parents implicitly recognized that, as in, “Did your father and mother meet during the War?” “Was your mother one of the WAVES?” “What did he do after the War?” and so forth. Some say the Sixties changed everything, but on reflection, I don’t think it changed us much. We were defined by the Wars—and by being one generation off the farm.
In January of his 90th year, my father had a stroke. He had been struggling with Alzheimer’s for some time. The hospital staff had seen many like him, and they quietly conveyed to us that we should not expect too much. It was even spelled out, not merely hinted, that, beyond what common humanity required, the quality of his care would likely not matter much, and we ought not to spend his estate on it.
At first, I delayed going to visit him at the rehab, in a small city about 80 miles away. Responsibilities tie me to the big city, but more than that, everyone rushes out to see the newly stricken. What about the long months of plastic dishes, metal frames, and monitors? Who visits then, besides the medications nurse and the ward cleaner?
So I went about four weeks later.
Another Escape Attempt
I got off the intercity bus, found the hospital, and located the crowded, bewildering ward. I finally spotted him, subdued, shrunken, and painfully pushing a walker along a hallway, followed by two attendants. I was sure it was him, but what if . . .
I shouted tentatively (if that is possible), “John O’Leary.”
He immediately straightened up, military style, and shouted back, “John O’Leary!” He stared around glassily; he had suffered eye damage and I was not in his field of vision.
I came closer and said, “Dad, it’s me, Denyse. Your daughter.” (Now, always, forever. The stroke can’t take that away from us.)
Denyse O'Leary is a columnist for Salvo magazine, and co-author, with Mario Beauregard, of The Spiritual Brain (HarperOne).
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