As I sit beside my father, who has entered the final chapter of his life, I sew. It’s all I can do that feels like it lends an air of peace. I try to write. I just seem to stare at the pen. I do tidy up a bit and clean his space and help him take a sip of cranberry juice. I’ll lift the dog, Tobey, into his bed so he can pet him. I watch Dad reach into the air for things he sees but I do not see. But it’s when I just sit and sew a sock monkey that he seems most peaceful. He knows I’m being industrious. He likes that. I posted the following on FB two days ago:
Ever doubted the power of the sock monkey? I just spent a peaceful couple of hours with my dad watching the debate and just being. He looked over as I was sewing a pink monkey and, through his morphine haze, raised his power fist and said, “that is wonderful.” “Fucking rights, Pappa.” and we laughed.
I made Dad a HEAL sock monkey last February when he went in for a large procedure. It’s been hanging out with him ever since.