
PART 1 ARTICLE 8 AUDIO FILE IN FOOTER ♫
Nearly 20 years ago, I witnessed my father in the last chapter of his life, finding comfort only in his recliner each night. Watching him, I marveled at the realities of aging — the ways our bodies, worn down by aches, pains, and breathing troubles, change our simplest comforts. He started this routine in his eighties. I, at 72, found myself drawn to my own recliner. My dad always said he never felt truly “old” until he reached 80. Though my body sometimes disagrees, I hope to reach much older before I surrender to such notions; we are, after all, a competitive family!
Dad became my retirement guru. In his eighties, he was still biking 10 miles a day, traveling the world, creating stained glass windows for his church, fishing from his own boat, and inventing gadgets of every kind. His brilliance shone in his creativity and innovation. “Tell me what you want something to do, and I’ll make it,” he’d say, and he did!
A skilled engineer and self-taught inventor, Dad held many jobs over the years. Often, he was hired for roles he had no formal training for but prepared for by reading two or three books before starting. By his first day, coworkers looked up to him as an expert. He was a hard act to follow.

Our relationship wasn’t one filled with hugs, kisses, or the adoration I imagined a daughter deserved. He was a stoic, stern German who expected hard work, discipline, and perfection — traits that, to him, didn’t warrant praise, only fulfillment. After his divorce from my mother when I was eleven and the formation of two new families, our connection took a back seat to his new commitments.
I knew he loved me, though his way of showing it was limited by his nature and life’s circumstances. Yet, my struggle to feel that love reflected as much of my personality as it did his. So many of us look back, interpreting our parents’ behaviors as the source of our own insecurities. “Dad said this; that’s why I’ll never be good enough.” “Mom did that; that’s why I feel unlovable.” While these feelings are often valid, we must recognize how our unique mindsets shape our interpretations.
Over time, our relationship settled into a pleasant but distant rhythm — a few annual visits and polite conversations about my accomplishments. No matter what I achieved, I always felt we’d never reach the closeness I yearned for. It took me years to realize that a certain depth simply wasn’t possible, not through any fault of our own, but because it was not in our nature.
In his late eighties, as Dad’s health deteriorated, I visited more often, leveraging my hospice experience and medical training to help manage his care. Occasionally, I noticed a spark of pride in his eyes — a look that seemed to go beyond my professional success. Perhaps, I finally thought, it wasn’t always about what I did. Maybe he had always liked me, and it was I who couldn’t see it.
Mind Blown!
Dad even set aside his beloved Fox News so we could talk. He shared stories he’d never told anyone, including his haunting experiences on the front lines in WWII. For the first time, I felt that a deep, unspoken love lay just beneath his exterior. Though he would never say it aloud, I finally felt it.
He laughed when visiting nurses mistook me for his sister, not his daughter! While I cringed at being assumed to be in my eighties, he was delighted.
“Earl, is this your sister?”
“Older sister,” he’d say, laughing with glee.
In the end, as he lay surrounded by loved ones — his wife Avis, my half-sister Michele, my stepbrother Bob, and me — we shared stories. I told the nurses the funny tale of everyone thinking I was his sister.
“Older sister,” he repeated, with a smile. Those were his last words. Minutes later, he passed peacefully in my arms.
Now as I rest on my recliner with Ben and Gerri and a warm blanket, after a long, restful sleep, my eyes glisten with the thought that I was, indeed, loved. And yes, good enough.
