(A photo of my cousin and my Dad)

Dad’s Decline

 

            Can you image the pressure on my father?

            Dad had to work full-time because he was the only one to work while I was in the hospital. He worked as a fixer in his brothers’ hosiery mill. A fixer is the person who kept the machines running. It was an important job and required steady hands, knowledge about the machines, and skill. Since Dad worked for his brothers, he rarely got a raise in pay and worked for next to nothing.

            Dad had a new house he was building. He had one full-time carpenter. Like I said, we aren’t rich! So, dad helped out in the afternoons and late into the evenings. He also had my uncle and a friend to help the carpenter; I think they were paid a dollar an hour because they had come from the Vietnam “Conflict” and just wanted time.

            Dad had to take care of Dale and try to provide some sort of a normal home life for him.

            Dad came to see me as much as he possibly could while I was in the hospital.

            Dad was also dealing with the certain knowledge that the dystonia came from him. He felt extremely guilty about what this disorder had done to Dale and myself. I was a daddy’s girl remember. I know I had rather go through something myself than to see a loved one in pain. And Dad was no exception. He loved us both so much that the idea of him causing us pain was unbearable.

            Of course, he had no idea he had dystonia. He thought it was polio. And neither Dale nor I ever blamed Dad. Mom never blamed Dad. Dad blamed himself.

            On top of everything, he had an accident going to work. It wasn’t his fault. I believe there was ice on the road. But the little things began to add up.

            By this time, his limp was more pronounced and his neck drew to the left more than it ever had. Looking at photos, you can see where his neck pulled a bit also.

            One day, Dad asked Mom about getting the same surgery as I had gotten. Mom was so exhausted; I think she said whatever you want.

            Six months after my last surgery, my father had his first cryothalamotomy in June 1970. He would never work, drive, or walk again. He had his second surgery in December of that year for the other side with the same results.

            Mom lost her best friend, and Dale and I lost a parent. The surgery didn’t kill my dad but it took something vital from him: his freedom and dignity.