Watching my father in his favorite recliner, eyes closed deep in thought, I wondered what was going through the mind of this ninety-five-year-old man. What problems could he solving? What memories was he reliving? Gently touching his arm to get his attention, I had to know.

“Dad, what are you thinking about?” I asked.

Slowly opening his eyes filled with wisdom, he smiled and said, “I’m playing tennis. It’s a great match.”

Stunned, I sat back not sure what to say, but then began to giggle. My father never picked up a tennis racket in his entire life.

“You’re playing tennis? Who with?”

“My other children,” he said smirking. “You don’t know them, but they’re wonderful.”

Leaning in closer, I interrogated, “Your other children? Are they as good as us?”

“Yes, they’re very special,” he answered as he shut his eyes once again. “I think you’d like them.”

Seeing he wanted to get back to his activity, I kissed his forehead as I stood up, “Ok, dad. I’ll let you finish your game. I’ll check on you in a few minutes.”

Sitting at my desk, pouring over piles of bills, I couldn’t get over the fact that my dad was making up stories in his head. Was it because his vision no longer allowed him to read?

As a child, he was always quiet about life – his and everyone else’s. He never told tales of his youth nor did he ask anything of what was going on with us. That information he got through my mother. His life was about hard work. It was not only his responsibility, but his recreation. He never knew frivolity.

Forty-five minutes later, I checked back in. “How’s the tennis game going?”

“Oh, I got tired and went for a hike in the mountains. I’m hungry. Can I have a cookie?”

Cupping his chin in my hand, I looked into the face of this man I was just beginning to truly know and said, “Sure dad. I bet all that exercise has made you hungry.”

Caring for my father has been one of the most beautiful treasures of my life. That is not to say it’s been easy. It’s also been one of the most difficult as well.

When a parent moves in with an adult child, everything changes for all concerned. The parent has lost every shred of independence they once knew. The home they raised their children in is gone. They’re no longer in charge of their finances, their schedules, and, in many cases, their bodily needs. Baths and toilet necessities become a part of the caregiver’s daily routine.

For the adult child, life becomes about precise schedules. Diaper changes are a must at frequent intervals. Full meals must be prepared and spoon fed. Spontaneity is lost. No longer can a trip to the grocery store be made for a carton of milk on a whim. And a weekend away is a laborious check off list. There are supplies that must be purchased (diapers, wipes, food, medicine) and “parent sitters” lined up for every minute of the day. It’s a delicate juggling act of an 18 count carton of eggs. One slip up creates a complete mess.

But the gifts outweigh the inconvenience. With this time with my daddy, I have learned not only about the remarkable human being I call my father, but I have discovered more about me.

With my father as my roommate, I have discovered I’m more like him than my mother. Besides the fact I closely resemble him (only a little softer and shorter), our easy going temperaments are identical along with our optimistic approach to life. We are firm believers good will come out of even the most desperate of situations and acceptance is our middle name. And now, it’s our quiet enjoyment for imagination that bonds us closer. Him in his mind, mine on paper. We are both storytellers for those willing to take the time to listen.

As I walk by his chair, I wonder what exciting tale he’s creating. What river he’s forging, what mountain he’s skiing on, or what company he’s the president of. Watching this creative process makes me less fearful of growing old, for as long as I hold onto my gift for the imagination, I too with have a fabulous life in my aging years all in my mind’s eye.

“No! I want it the right way,” my then six-year-old daughter, Michelle, screamed. “How do babies get inside a mommy’s tummy? And don’t tell me anymore God stories.”

Now we all know God definitely plays a major role in the birth of any child, but my inquisitive daughter wanted the facts and only the facts.

“Honey,” I slowly began. “Remember how mommy always said if I didn’t have the answer I’d have to get back to you? Well, this is one of those times.”

For the next several hours I stewed, sweated, and researched how to impart the facts of life to a child who was still a baby herself.

“Give it to her simply,” a nursing friend instructed. “She’ll guide you with how much information she can absorb.”

That night, as I laid her down in her Barbie Doll sheets, I began, “Well, mommy has the egg and daddy has the seed…” Carefully I traversed the story of she came into this world just short of the implementation. All was going swimmingly (no pun intended) until she asked, “Mommy, so how does that seed get inside? Do you eat it?”

“Oh my God! Now what do I do?” I thought terrified. But God in all his wisdom somehow imparted me with the verbal tools to give the information her little mind could comprehend.

Throughout my life, I’ve never had any problems telling the truth – as long as it was my truth. That was easy mainly because I knew if I lied, I’d get caught and have to suffer the consequences. But when it came to telling someone else theirs, my tongue grew cotton.

Recently, I had to accompany my ninety-five-year-old father to the eye doctor. Macular Degeneration was playing havoc with his sight, but being the eternal optimist, he was sure he’d get better. After all, he’d been enduring horrific shots into the eye socket to keep the disease at bay, but the results were not what he was hoping for.

Because he’s nearly deaf, it was up to me to lean over his crippled body and relay the doctor’s words.

“Dad, I’m so sorry. You’re eyes are tired. Too much damage has been done and you’ll never see clearly again.”

“Never?” he asked tears misting in his once crystal blue eyes.

Holding back the emotion that was about to explode in my heart, I answered him honestly, “No dad. Never.”

Backing away, it nearly killed me to see the sadness in his face. This man is the closet thing to God I’ll ever know and he deserved to be treated much better by the Almighty in his final years. Rage filled my heart and I wanted to perform one of my petulant screaming tantrums, but knowing my father would want honesty, all I could do was give him the truth. There was no way to dance around this one and he deserved it.

Wheeling him out of the doctor’s office, both of us unable to speak, I could feel one of God’s indirect gifts being bestowed on this disheartening moment. The delicate silk thread that wove this father and daughter’s heart together was now lined in gold. Our relationship had always been based on love and trust. There never were, nor never be, any lies or secrets between us. This has always freed our souls to bond and in the end he knows I’ll be right by his side, truth in hand, to help him on his journey home.

Since my daddy moved in with me two months ago, 229 has been the most important TV channel of his little world.

Macular Degeneration has taken away his vision. He can no longer see clearly to do the one thing he loves most which is to read and he needs to be spoon fed because he is unable see his plate of food, but channel 229 keeps him close to a source of comfort that has never abandoned him – his Catholic religion.

“I think it’s time for mass,” he calls out, settling in for another journey with our Lord.

I press 229 on the TV remote and the church bells ring loud and clear. The priest slowly makes his way through the throng of devote parishioners to the gilded alter and the sacrament begins.

“There you go, dad,” I say as I kiss his forehead. “I’ll be back when it’s over.”

Standing at the door, I watch his eyes close and lips silently follow along in prayer. He centers himself into a blissful peace I fear I will never know.

All my life, I have watched this man of God live a pure, holy life. Born into the rich tradition of Catholicism, my dad has always lived according to the holy scripture’s plan. He followed God’s laws. He lived a life of simplicity and humility. He always knew what was right and what was wrong.

One day, I had to ask the burning question I’d been pondering since I was a little girl. Being a woman with the middle name “why,” I needed to find his secret.

“Dad, do you ever question the teachings of the church?” I querried as I was tucked him into bed. “You seem to be so strong in what your belief.”

Looking at his only daughter who finds herself constantly lost as an adult with her religious upbringing, he took my hand and said, “Honey, I question so much.”

For a moment, I stood in shock. He always appeared to be the dutiful boy who did exactly what he was told. My father is a creature of routine and stability. It’s how he functions best and I assumed he blindly believed because it suited his lifestyle. For some, it’s just easier to be told how to live our lives than to explore the possibilities

“Really?” I said. “I’m surprised. What do you question?”

“I question issues that feel more political than religious, but when it comes to the teachings of Christ, I have no doubts. This is where you need to have faith.” Clutching his rosary to his chest, getting ready for his final nightly prayers, he continued, “Whenever you’re in doubt about your life, close your eyes and say ‘Jesus please comfort me.’ It works every time.”

Looking at this shriveled, shell of a human being who was once a strong and vibrant man, I traced my fingers around his face while he was slowly fell asleep and I ask one final question. “Dad, you’ve had so much taken away from you. Do you ever get depressed?”

Opening his aging blue eyes once more, he smiled and replied, “Learn to pray. It takes all of life’s pain away.” Then he closed his eyes for another night’s peaceful rest.

I will never know or understand the depths of his devotion, even though I’ve tried, but through his example, I've learned the sweet, warm comfort prayer does provide and will hang onto this daily ritual forever. Watching him gently and blissfully tip toe into the final days of his life, I know there has to be a life beyond where spirits peacefully gather and watch over their loved ones. I feel my mother every day and when my dad is no longer here, I know I'll feel his presence too. In this I have total faith.

My dad was never one to ooze over his four children in our youth like my mother. There was not a day that went by that mom didn’t convey, both verbally and demonstratively, how special we were. From the tips of our little button noses to our club feet, in her eyes, we were perfection. For my dad, his admiration came in subtle, quiet expressions – a look in his eye, a smile of pride, a nod or a wink.

Recently, in one of our evening conversations as I fed him dinner, I asked what he remembered about his children when we were young. I have my memories of who the good child was. I was curious to see if his jived with mine.

“Dad, what was Dave like when he was small,” I asked, figuring I’d start with the eldest and work my way down.

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he paused for a moment as he soaked in the image of his first born son. Because of his birth placement, David had the lofty responsibility of being the leader to the Madden offspring. It was his destiny to live an exemplary life for the rest of us to follow and a role he took to heart.

“He is such a good boy,” he began. “He is a sweet, kind soul. Always a joy and beautiful baby too.”

Yes, I agree, I thought.

“How about Tim?”

“Tim amazes me. He is such a good boy.”

Hmm. That’s not the way I remember it, but ok.

Tim and I are 20 months apart in age and as children we looked like identical twins. But while I behaved, Tim was a rascal always getting into mischief and doing the opposite of what he was told to do. My memory is of my parents always scolding him.

“And Michael?”

Remembering the tiny baby with cobalt blue eyes, waves of snow white curls and a dimple in his cheek in the exact location my dad sported one, he reminisced, “Michael was always quiet, but is a good boy.”

Michael was that surprise child for my parents in their forties. By far, the most beautiful of the bunch and the baby everyone wanted to protect long into his adult years, even when his choices became questionable in the eyes of social acceptability. I was especially happy to hear my father had only good memories of his baby boy.

Getting through this long exhaustive list of testosterone-loaded siblings, I was sure the best was being saved for last. After all, I was she only girl. His rose among the thorns who was not only sweet, but perfect. My mother always said so.

“How about me?” I asked, waiting for my accolades.

“You? Oh you were very busy.”

Busy? What the hell does that mean?

“And sneaky.”

Wait a minute! What about kind, loving and giving?

Leaning over to kiss him goodnight, I felt a pang of resentment. Ok, perhaps my life has always been in perpetual motion and, yes, I did sneak quarters from his dresser drawer to go buy a candy bar or two, but come on! I was the child who took care of all life’s little messes, including diapers. How come I’m not good. Then, I witnessed a discussion between Jenni (my number two) and her grandfather.

“Grandpa what was mom like when she was a little girl?” she asked, sitting on the edge of his chair, getting right up to his face so he could hear her.

Standing from behind, I could see his body immediately begin to relax as his mind wandered to his only daughter – the one child who closely resembled him both physically and in temperament.

“She is such a good girl,” he proudly stated. “Never a bother.”

“So, she was a good girl?”

“The best.”

Hearing this immediately brought me to tears. Instinctively, I always knew this is how he felt about me. I could see it every time he smiled when I walked into the room, but being a man of little words, expressions from the heart to the intended were difficult to convey.

As Jenni and I giggled over the compliment, it dawned on me that he only spoke about his children in the present. Not that “she was a good girl,” but “she is a good girl.” At ninety-five, my dad seems to hang onto the “now” of his days. He has his memories, those gentle pages of his past that flutter through his mind when completely alone, but he wants his world to be in the present with the people he loves most.

When God gave me the task of caring for him, he gave me one of the greatest gifts I’ll ever know. To spend the “now” of a loved one’s final days is not only a blessing but a treasure. It has taught me compassion and the beautiful reward of living in the moment. For when it comes right down to it, that is all we truly ever have – the here and now. It must be enjoyed.