In honor of Father’s Day, we bring you a post by guest Jennifer Wunderlich. Beyond composing grocery lists and the occasional “Thank You” card, Jennifer is a novice to writing. But oh! How she loves it! Married to her sweet husband of 16 years, together they own a sign and graphics company and try to maintain the peace between their four nutso but lovable, children. When Jen isn’t at home with her family, she’s in the trenches at a local hospital as a full time phlebotomist. Though she loves drawing blood what she really loves are road-trips, singing at the top of her lungs, laughing irreverently and chocolate. Jen recently started her own blog mainly to keep herself sane. Really and truly.
I could see it in their eyes.
These sons, these three grown men, stayed with their father through every hour of the day and night and I could see it in their eyes. I could hear it in their voices–not so much from the words they spoke, but from their hushed tones and wistful timbre. I could feel it in the air, tingling and crackling despite their efforts to create a quiet haven for their sick father. There was no stopping it or stalling it. Time had come and surprised them all, as it seemed to bid their father’s body to age and his mind to slow to a plod. They wore it on their faces; when they glanced at each other you could almost see it travel as a mindless thought from one to another: Where does the time go? When did this happen?
I was a visitor, not welcome very often, but a necessary evil. Entering his room early in the morning and then returning later when the shadows crept up the walls, I was there on the doctor’s errand, sent to draw the father’s blood. I often felt like an intruder, hearing the talk among them cease as I entered and feeling as if I had lifted the lid on the tin of memories and anecdotes they were so carefully unfolding. Often making small talk, I would smile gently and speak loudly, as his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. Or so he said. His name was Ralph. He was a kind man who didn’t wince when I had to draw his blood. He always had a gentle smile and was very gracious. For that I was most grateful. He would be eighty-five next week; there was going to be a huge party thrown in his honor. I would tease him that perhaps the party would be too wild for someone as young as he was. And he chuckled, more to himself than to me.
On a particular afternoon I knocked on his door and opened it to find his grown sons standing around him as he sat, freshly showered, in a chair. Between the three of them they were attempting to shave his face. Gently, almost gingerly, they helped their father lift his head as they ran the Norelco razor over his chin and cheeks, careful not to bump or tousle him. It was a reverent moment between a father and his sons. I couldn’t help but think how time had marched this family along the path that led them to this hospital room. It was almost a cruel trick. Here he was, the father, being taken care of by his sons as if he were the child. Eighty-five next week! Truth be told, I wasn’t sure if he would be having an eighty-fifth birthday party. He was ill. I hoped that time would spare him, that he could celebrate with his family.
Mercifully, in the end, Ralph did get to return home after a few days. Though he was alive when he left, my memory of him continued to haunt me after he had gone. I couldn’t help but reflect how time had pushed me along as well. Thirty-eight years old, four children, a husband, a dog, a parakeet, and a mortgage. One day would my children be sitting by my bedside as the caretakers while I was the child in the bed? Where does the time go? How does this happen?
There are a million-and-one ways that time passes us by. We have become accustomed to its stealth, no longer noticing when it passes day to day. Oh, sometimes we stop long enough to the surprise of realizing how the children are growing, but usually it passes unheralded, quietly. It passes with each dish and floor and hand that we wash. Kisses, embraces, fights, and everyday conversations don’t slow it, nor do moments that we purposefully try to hold onto for longer than we should. In fact, the more we try to slow time down, to savor what it is we are afraid of losing, the more stubborn it seems to be. It takes our memories and our money. It fades our photos and wrinkles our faces. Time is a bandit. Time is slippery. Time is a mystery. We can’t slow it or stop it or save it or speed it up. Time is its own master and answers to no one. Time is OUR master.
I don’t doubt that Ralph saw his frail legs under the cool sheets of the hospital bed and wondered to himself where the time had slipped to. Ralph had lived his life, raised his family, made a living, and had done what he needed to do, while at the whim of Master Time. The little hands he used to help wash and protect were now washing and protecting and caring for him. Time made it so.
I could see it in their eyes. They didn’t have to say it because I knew it,
for I wonder, too: where does the time go?
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