When I was a kid, my favorite color was red. It really wasn't, at least I don't think it was. My mother anointed me with it about the time my sister announced that she liked blue. Easy-peasy, Mom must have thought – one likes blue, the other will like red. Kelly got a blue chair. I got a red one. Kelly got a blue dress. I got a red one. Kelly got a blue bike. I got a – you guessed it. We weren't twins so she couldn't treat us exactly the same or dress us identically so blue and red were how she created a difference between us (Kelly was, and still is, my polar opposite – blond, skinny, and bratty. You'd think that would have been enough).
About every other year I still get something red for Christmas from my mom. A sweater one year, a polo shirt the next. I insist I don't like red; she insists it's a good color for me. What I don't send back to LL Bean, I wear once a year. When I visit her. I'm sure the people of Lindstrom, Minnesota, think I love red.
I know I will miss Mom's red gifts one day. She's not getting any younger. Neither is my dad. Actually, that’s an understatement. My mom is 83 and my dad will be 90 in October. I'm lucky to still have them and know I'm living on borrowed time. When I visit them, which is maybe once a year (Daughter of the Year, I’m not), I swallow the lump in my throat as I hug them goodbye. I always look back and take it all in because it could be the last time I see them alive.
Right after Father's Day, I got an email from my step-mom. "Your dad's not doing well...” After a modicum of planning, I got in the car. Less than twenty-four hours later, I sat on my dad's living room and watched Jordan Speith win a playoff hole with an incredible bunker shot. My step-mom may have exaggerated my dad’s condition – she knows the number of Daughter of the Year votes I usually get – but he’s a shadow of the man I remember him being just one short year ago. While the sarcastic wit and right-wing sensibilities remain (We've segued from golf to Fox News), his body fails him. His hand, when it isn’t clutched to his chest, shakes. It takes a Herculean effort to change the TV channel. Most depressing of all, he can't take one step without his walker.
The last time I saw him, he used a cane when we went out and about. Now, his walker sits by his chair and goes wherever he goes. Sadly, he doesn’t go very far. Kudos to Dad on his walker selection, though. Fire engine red, with big tires, brakes, and a zippered glove box, it's the Ferrari SUV of walkers. At least he looks fast as he cruises to the bathroom.
Is this what the man, who taught me to catch and throw, who yelled "If you can touch it, you can catch it" when I dropped the football, who came to all of my college tennis matches, who saw me win my first 10k, has been reduced to? A spicy red walker.
I wonder what else he has to show for himself. Years of working hard for his family? Two well-educated daughters and me, a part-time novelist and blogger? It's not much. When I look at my parents (My mom has about as much to show as my dad) one word comes to mind – Sacrifice. I rationalize it’s what their generation did. Then I tell myself I'm not selfish and privileged.
But I am privileged. My parents raised me to have choices and gave me the courage and the independence to make them. My mother may have decided my favorite color, but I got to choose just about everything else. I've lived selfishly - pursued my goals, chased my dreams - and my parents have cheered me on from the sidelines. Always. That said, I should probably polish Dad's walker and complain less about wearing red once a year. And realize that whatever I have to show is what they have to show. If all goes well, my next big thing will be a lesbian romance novel. The world may not be extremely excited or proud, but I know two people who will be – my mom and dad.
I'll wear red at my first book signing, Mom. Just for you.
Postscript... Sadly, I wore purple to my first book signing. I think my mom was proud of me regardless.