Regret Redemption

Jessica Frith
Sep 2, 2018 · 5 min read

I don’t have many regrets but if there was a chance to do a single day over again, I know exactly where I’d go and what I would do differently.

Five years ago was the last day I spent with my father in the “real world.” By that I mean it was the last time we were together outside of the house or the hospital. His health had been heading downhill for a few years. A stroke, a seizure, difficulty swallowing food — the physical assaults had weakened him and robbed him of his former peppy pace.

I had taken this trip back home to Bermuda from my current home of NYC. It was an irritatingly hot and humid August afternoon and I offered to take my father into town. Seeing him watch TV at home all day saddened me and I thought an outing would somehow revitalize him. Maybe I just needed to know he still wanted to do such a thing.

It took ten minutes just to get into the car. Sweat was already pooling down my spine before I pulled out of the driveway. A little voice in my brain questioned, “Is this a good idea?”

I paid the meter in town. Two hours should do it, I thought.

“I’d like to go to Gibbons Company. I want to look at some shorts.” My father requested.

I was happy to oblige. He needed to exert what little independence he had left even though I knew my mother no longer allowed him access to a debit or credit card. (That’s another story.) The AC in that department store was glorious and I instantly relaxed.

“I need a bathroom.” His eyes darted around.

“Ok, Dad, can you wait until we go next door for coffee?”

“No, I need one now.” He moved anxiously in search of one. His steps slower than he wanted, his arms shaky and frail as they grasped the clothing racks as guides.

My heart rate propelled itself into oblivion and I begged whatever powers that be to not let my father have an accident right there, in that store. I wasn’t only embarrassed for him, I was experiencing my own level of humiliation. Who would see me? Bermuda is like a small town, familiar faces are at every turn. (Totally oblivious to my own emotional immaturity, I was unaware of the shame this feeling would impart for the next few years.)

We found the bathroom and he was in there so long I feared he’d fallen.

I checked the time. Somehow 45 minutes had passed since we parked. I just wanted to take him to the diner around the corner and let him sit. Let me sit. Let him be social. To make me feel better, make me feel like a good daughter. I needed that. (Me, me, me).

That one block walk was painful. He inched along on his muscle-less legs and I remember feeling angry about how slumped he was, how fucking slow he was. This wasn’t the man I remembered. I was sweating again. I wanted to get him out of view of the public, hide him away in that diner. (It’s painful writing this, even now). I checked my watch again when we finally sat down. Another eight minutes just to walk one block.

The freight train of emotion slowed and I was able to take a real breath when we ordered our coffees and exchanged pleasantries with some familiar faces. The clientele were all older, the pace was unhurried and we weren’t out of place here. This spot (literally called, The Spot) hadn’t changed since I was a kid. Yes, this was the right choice. I reached for his hand and we exchanged a heartfelt smile.

Then I watched my father put far too much sugar in his coffee and I couldn’t withhold my dismay.

“Dad, that’s too much, that’s not good for you!”

He had a second cup.

“Dad, you need to drink some water, you’re going to be dehydrated.”

His attempt at drinking water resulted in a five-minute coughing fit. He explained that water was hard to swallow. His coffee, with the 5 sugars, was thicker, and went down easier. I didn’t understand. Why was his body doing this? I wanted to go home. I checked the time. Fifteen minutes until the parking meter expired. It would take at least fifteen minutes just to get back to the car. I didn’t want a $50 parking ticket. (In hindsight, there is nothing I would rather spend $50 on.)

Unsurprisingly, the rest of the story is that I rushed him out of the diner. I wanted to avoid a parking ticket but I also wanted to avoid the pain of seeing my father like that. An appalling paucity of patience but most of all, I lacked grace. After he passed away, I thought about that outing often and I struggled to come to terms with the woman I had been that scorching August day. Eventually, I came to forgive her and her inability to enjoy any of those precious moments.

Fast forward to last week, August 30th, quite possibly the hottest day of the year here in New York. I’m walking to get from A to B, like most New Yorkers. I’m not out for a stroll and I’m checking my email while I walk because, did I mention I’m a New Yorker? But I look up from my phone as I get ready to cross 5th avenue and I see an elderly woman hunched over a wheeled walker. She looks confused and her movement is slow and labored. It’s clear she is lost or the heat has disoriented her. Concerned, I stop, I don’t take my eyes off her. She waves for my help and I run to her.

She’s looking for a hair salon, she can’t remember where it’s located but she’s been there before. She struggles to communicate the name of the salon — both her memory and her speech are muffled. I assume she’s survived a stroke or some other health complication and I’m overcome with empathy and love for this stranger. I’m shocked by the intensity of it. I decide to stay with her until she is where she needs to be, however long that takes. We retreat to an air-conditioned luxury-bedding store so she can sit down and with the help of Google maps and patience we find it. It’s a half-block away. Her sweet smile is one of relief.

“You were so close!” I reassure her with a little more exuberance than necessary.

We walk the half block together and it takes time. Her mini steps are deliberate and she is overheating. I’m gracious and compassionately composed. As I hold the door of the salon open for her she says, “Thank you. This really is a wonderful place to get your hair done.”

The familiarity of the scenario didn’t hit me until I walked away and was blessed with a single tear as I entered Madison Square Park. Thank you, Universe/God/Aretha Franklin, for giving me an opportunity to put a little of what I’ve learned into practice. Thank you for allowing me to redeem even a small amount of this past penitence.

Jessica Frith

Written by

Personal coach at Tectonic Coaching. Hatched in Bermuda, hovering in NYC.

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