Life goes on long after 64

Paul McCartney wrote, "Will you still need me/will you still feed me/when I'm 64?" Even though 64 seems young (it certainly seemed that way when my mother died at 64 from breast cancer), it echoes the reality of aging.


My dad, who is 78, just got out of surgery today, to remove a couple of lumps from his throat. It may be Hodgkins disease, it may be some other kind of cancer. It may be another type of cancer. It may be isolated to the throat; it may have spread. Right now, all anyone can do is wait for test results, and pray.


When I was 8, I used to walk the three blocks from our house on West Stadium in West Lafayette, Ind., to the corner of Northwestern Ave. (I wasn't allowed to cross it by myself) and wait to meet my dad, walking home from work at Purdue. He always greeted me with a hearty, warm laugh and hug, and patiently listened to me tell him about the minutia of my day.


When I was 26, my dad flew to Minneapolis from Ohio to help me move from one apartment to another. We snapped and snarled all day at each other, and I was relaxed and happy when we were done. My mother remarked, when I told her, "That's because your dad understands that you need to do that. I would have tried to make you feel better, and made things worse."


When I was 34, my dad "gave me away" at my wedding. Just before we started down the pathway of the beautiful formal garden, I was irritable and weepy. He gave me his arm, warm, solid and reassuring, and said just the right thing to make me feel calm and happy.


When our first child was born, he sent flowers -- the same Osiana roses he had asked me to include in my bridal bouquet at my wedding. He followed it up a few days later with a visit, where he sat and sang "Um Ya Ya" to her while he held her as they sat on our patio.

And when we had our daughters baptized, he came for both ceremonies and took photos, singing heartily on all the hymns, even as he declared that he wasn't comfortable darkening the doors of a church any more.


Now my dad is showing signs of aging and mortality, and I'm not ready for it. Maybe I was spoiled, watching my grandparents live well until they were in their 90s. Or, maybe with my mom gone, I'm not ready yet for my dad to get old. I guess I'm just selfish, but this is one time I just don't want to be practical or realistic or pragmatic. I just want to be Daddy's little girl a little longer.