Teenage Caregiver
As soon as the dismissal bell rang, I’d jump into my friend’s ’69 Nova, fire up a bong, and exhale a cloud of smoke so musty and thick that my friends couldn’t see out the windows. The angst of being a teenager dissipated into the air. I felt invincible and invisible. It was a brief escape from having to change my dad’s dialysis bags and sanitize his catheter. Most teenagers spend their high school years experimenting with drugs and sex, playing sports, making lifelong friends, and occasionally completing homework. I spent every night for four years being a teenage caregiver to my ailing dad.
Let me be clear, I hated being my dad’s caretaker. I wanted to hang out with my friends, hook up with a girl, and chill at parties. I wanted to be carefree. But my mom worked sixty hours a week at a hot dog stand to pay the bills and put food on the table. With my mom working, the responsibility of watching over my dad fell on me. I didn’t put up a fight, though. It was either be a typical, rebellious teenager or my dad dies. Which option would you choose?
The highlight of our afternoons together was driving my purple Ford Ranger to Pik-Kwik for groceries. My dad lost his license because his eyesight was terrible, so I had the honors of driving. And because our afternoon cruises were after school, I usually drove while stoned. Pik-Kwik was only ten minutes from our house but it felt like hours. I was annoyed. As soon as I pressed play on my Black Flag CD my dad would yell, “Turn that goddamn music off!” Knowing he spent most of the day attached to his dialysis machine, I begrudgingly obliged, “No problem, pops.”
After I graduated high school, my dad succumbed to the ailments and diseases I spent four years defending him from. I was defeated. I was drained. I was angry. He spent his final days sitting in his bedroom, staring out the window watching time go by. A tube drained his verve for life. Twenty years later and I still have that image seared into my brain. I felt like a failure for not doing enough to protect my dad, for not appreciating the time we spent together. Yet selfishly I felt a release of responsibility that weighed on me since I was fourteen. For the first time in my life, I was able to focus on what I wanted. For the first time, I was able to breathe.
Years later I’m now a father of two rambunctious boys. Those years of taking care of my dad were incredibly formative. I have memories that both haunt and inspire me. I often wonder what will happen to me as I grow old and what impact those changes will have on my relationship with my sons. Like the images I hold of my dad, I wonder what images of me will they hold?
