A lot of people ask how my dad is.

I believe my dad’s as good as he gets. He’s lost the capacity to determine what he needs to feel healthy, connected and engaged. These days, he’s as good as the opportunities provided.

We could be at a picnic on the beach. The August wasps dive into our lemonade, and Dad’s surprised that the blue out yonder is water. We take a big circular walk back to the car because, you know, motion is lotion.

We could be shucking corn. Who knew Dad would remember how to do it? Or watering the garden. It turns out that muscle memory extends to flicking a hose to untwist it.

Once a week, Dad’s youngest sister, Ausma, visits. The two of them review YouTube videos from the summer’s Latvian Song Festival. Dad cries and sings. It’s heartbreaking in a forgiving grief kind of way.

Summer learning

This summer provided me with a chance to understand how to make the most of every visit. Give Dad no more than one task. Stick to routine. Allow for changes and just allow.

For example, Dad enjoys accompanying us to the grocery store, and he loves children.

A few weeks ago, Dad started making googlie eyes with a little baby at the checkout. Baby cried. Dad cried. Baby cried even more.

“We’ve never experienced anything like this,” I said to Dad, putting a reassuring arm around his shoulder.

Baby’s mom smiled. The checkout clerks smiled. My heart melted, and our entire evening was permeated by this miracle.

We are who we are

For the past few years, I’ve accepted that my dad probably doesn’t know who I am.

An anecdote from Canadian singer Jann Arden has been my guiding light.

“Mom!” exclaims Jann’s mom when she sees her daughter Jann. “Mom!” says Jann to her mom.

Then one day this summer, Dad said suddenly, in perfect Latvian, “Tu esi mana meitiņa pirmā.” (You are my firstborn daughter). I opened my phone and wrote that down so I wouldn’t forget.

“This is such a great visit,” I said later as we walked down the hall.

“And you don’t need to write that down,” said Dad.

Ausma says Dad recognizes himself and his siblings in every photograph. When, I asked. Now? Today, Ausma replied.

I can barely believe it.

One day, I pick up Dad from the ninth floor and he introduces me as his sister.

Daughter, I say.

Sister, says Dad.

Who am I to complain?

Sing, cry, repeat

I’ve come to understand that I get what I give and reap what I sow.

In the car, I play heart-inspiring Latvian choral works. Dad slaps his knee, sings, cries. I sing and cry, too, my hands tight on the wheel. 

When I pick up Dad, he always asks about my other three. Yes, I say. Three daughters, one, two, three.

If we’re lucky, one of my daughters is with us, and we tell Dad about the others. Repetition, presence, love.

Suits from Latvia

This summer in Latvia, I finally had the chance to go through my aunt Ilze’s closet. It turns out that Dad kept several suits, shirts, a tuxedo and a coat in Riga so he didn’t have to worry about bringing everything with him every time he travelled.

I brought three suits back to Canada. Dad got to wear the light grey one to Kapu svētki (Latvian memorial celebration) with Ausma this Sunday. He’ll also wear it to Latvian seniors’ day this Thursday. 

It’ll be nice to return to seniors’ choir. It’ll be good for Dad to wander the halls of the Latvian Centre, eat Latvian food, speak Latvian and connect with people who love, admire and care for him.

Thanks for the summer, Dad.

And thanks, everyone, for your heartfelt inquiries about how my dad’s doing. Your little bit* means so very much.

*Listen to “Give a Little Bit” by Supertramp on Spotify or YouTube.