The Talking Stick

My sisters and I used a talking stick this weekend to have a chat with our aging dad. Oh, it wasn't as pretty as this picture. In fact, it looked a lot like a cell phone with the speaker function turned on.

Talking sticks were often passed around in tribal circles, so that everyone present had a chance to speak. One description I read also noted that it was particularly helpful for "those who may be shy." (Not an issue with me and my sisters - most of the time, we're all speaking at once. If you translate the word "speaking" generously. We're Italian, after all.)

Three of us were with our father in the tiny dining room of his Maryland house, and one was in California. We agreed that for this important talk, we weren't going to interrupt each other, so whoever was holding the talking stick/phone would have the floor, and we looped in the sister on the phone with each round.

We're worried about our father lately. He's always been remarkably able, even as he's grown older, even after surviving bladder cancer, losing that organ, and having his kidneys fail so that he undergoes dialysis three times a week. But we're seeing some changes, and we want him to consider living with my oldest sister in Phoenix. That means selling his house and giving up driving (even though he's a steady, careful driver who's never had an accident, and I, on the other hand...well, let's not go there). It means letting go of even more of the independence he's lost through aging and widower-hood.

We can see how painful it is to him that we view him this way, our strong, smart dad. The dad who was so handsome when we were young he would turn heads. The dad who worked so hard to keep his five kids safe, but lost his only son in a moment he was helpless to prevent. The dad who has spent some focused time in the last few years clearing out and repairing his home, documenting his accounts, and planning his funeral, to save us from those tasks. I can't visit him these days without tears sneaking up on me. If he does move to Arizona, I won't see him much, making the 20-minute drive I have to his home now seem like an instant.

Damn that talking stick. We had to say things, however lovingly, that hurt my father. We just want to keep him safe. And better a small hurt now than a big one later. But it doesn't feel very good, no matter how noble our intentions. And when we finished, he said, head low, "I'll think about it." It's a start.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie