In my five decades, pain has been my constant companion. Different kinds of pain. Physical, emotional, mental, situational… how many kinds of pain are there, anyway? I’m not complaining. Having pain in life also allows a person to see the opposite side of it. Health, happiness, joy, and growth, to be specific.
Let’s start with physical pain. Not my own, but my father’s. He was a victim of rheumatoid arthritis, which is typically a women’s disease. I’ve always wished there was something I could have done to ease his pain. I regret that my product was never available for him to use.
He became ill with rheumatoid arthritis when my mother was pregnant with me, so I never knew him any other way. I was the baby of seven children, so my siblings knew him before he had it, so they have many different memories of him than I have.
As a child, I was always careful to avoid bumping into him and accidentally bending his stiff wrists. I didn’t want to hear some of the words that came out of his mouth when that happened. In the summertime, when he came home from work he would sit on the back porch and sometimes lie down for a rest before coming into the house. Seems he spent most of his energy working and just getting back home. His rest didn’t ever last very long, because there was always some kind of task needing to be done.
Just because he couldn’t move easily, it was never an excuse not to do things. He shopped for groceries, did laundry and hung it on the line outside to dry. I hated seeing underwear blowing in the breeze! He always helped my mother with the summer canning. He did his own car repairs for as long as possible. When he couldn’t, he was the verbal instruction manual for my young, stronger than usual, nephew as he replaced the engine in the old Mustang so my sister would have a car to drive.
We always had a tidy yard and fresh vegetables. Broken washing machines, flat tires, bicycle maintenance and dental appointments were just parental chores that needed to be done. Calling and visiting his aging parents was a must. I’ve always wondered how he picked up his oversized and partially-paralyzed mother the day she fell.
I didn’t think my Tower of Strength would ever stop crying after my 5-year old nephew passed away.
At 14, and having the seasoned wealth of knowledge that I did, I wanted him to take more medication than he did. To me, more medrol and at least a pain pill once in a while would be a good thing for him. I begged him to go to Mexico when I heard that others were being “cured” back in the early 70’s. I was angry at him when he set me straight.
I was horrified when I came back from my honeymoon to find him in the hospital where he had undergone gall bladder surgery. I had no idea he was even sick at my wedding.
With his stiff wrists and bent fingers, everyday he had two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ready and waiting for a grandson upon his return from Kindergarten. In his mind, no kid should ever be hungry or have shoes that were too small. Sometimes my siblings returned only to find that the toes had been cut out of their childrens’ shoes with his trusty pocketknife.
He called me when my children were young to find out about their doctor appointments, or to check to see how they were doing when they were sick. The day before he died, when he was weak and could barely talk, he “strongly advised” his brother to find out what was wrong with his mouth before it was too late. My uncle ended up with throat cancer.
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Dad couldn’t do much about his own physical ailments, but he seared into my mind by his example that you think of others first, and don’t let your physical problems interfere with everyone else’s lives. I wish he had the chance to get some relief from my creation. I’m sure he would tell me he was proud of me.
