Hello there, I'm Joan!

I wrote the following in the San Jose airport after a recent trip to visit my dad. It's been burning a hole in my Gmail draft mailbox ever since. I'm reminded of the experience often, and I figured it was time to try to forgive myself and move on. So, here it is.

On Saturday morning, my last morning with my Dad, Joan decided to join us. She had just come out from her bedroom and we did introductions for the 200th time. Joan had almost zero short term memory, and she liked to walk laps around the very small building. Each lap, we were re-introduced and heard the same stories of her youth, career, and kids. Eventually, she sat down on the couch across from us, insisting that my father take a sip of her coffee despite the clearly marked Starbucks cup in his hands. Then Joan, a woman without the capacity to remember my name, looked deep into my soul and tore me apart. "You have room at your place, don't you?" she asked. "Why don't you take your father home with you right now? Get him out of here. You have room at your place, don't you?" "Yes, Joan," I responded honestly. For some reason, I was unable to lie to a woman who wouldn't remember my face in 10 seconds. "This place is terrible, you need to take your father out of here and care for him yourself," said Joan. She identified my deepest insecurity and pressed. "Your dad is fine, get him out of here. Go while they're not looking. Go. Go. Go!" My dad's eyes lit up, looking at me expectantly. Why couldn't I take him out of there? The fantasy played out in my mind. We could jump into the rental car and speed to the airport, windows open and wind in our hair. We'd talk about how much the Giants sucked this year and how we need to get back to another game. He'd touch my arm as he turned to the memory of the 2010 NLDS game we attended together. "Lincecum had 14 strikeouts, remember Aneel?" We'd rage against Trump for a while, and then he'd surprise me with genuine empathy and compassion for Trump's supporters. We'd plan our next father-son trip - maybe Denver this time? We could do a brewery tour. He'd suggest Cuba instead, convinced his elite travel status could get him around any of the ridiculous new travel restrictions. After some silence, he'd begin to reminisce about Mom, maybe starting with a comment about how long it's been since she passed - but he'd get choked up quickly and return to silence. He'd ask me if I was getting enough exercise, ask about my job and how I'm investing my money. He'd tell me about his own investments with great excitement. We'd talk about the kids, and he'd get choked up again. My God, he loved the kids. But instead of making a mad dash for the door, I looked at him with tears in my eyes and said nothing. I've failed as a son, again and again, I've failed. My father is miserable, I know he is. His life-long defining (and also his most infuriating) characteristic was his independence and I took it from him. He still blames me for forcing him to stop driving. He's forgotten a lot, but he remembers that.

"Hello there, I'm Joan! Is this your dad?" This time, I just ignored her.