Goodbye, Peter Pan.

This week, after much deliberation, I finally put the pieces in place for my father to enter hospice care. It has been, not surprisingly, a time for great reflection.

Looking back over dad’s life, I’m struck by many things: how fast it all goes, the immense challenges of a failing body, the small twists of fate that can totally redefine a life. However, the thing that I’m most struck by, the thing I just can’t shake, is the fact that that my dad’s life is ending … without him ever having really grown up.

Raised in the “School of Hard Knocks,” as he called it; my dad was raised by a few older brothers. His father had left. His mom died young. With no model for adult behavior, he has coasted through life without the most basic adult skills for navigating life.

He was often rude, abrupt, downright mean and irresponsible. He was particularly irresponsible with money and regularly put our family in financially perilous situations.

Dad loved gambling on the ponies. Once, hitting a trifecta, he won $1,400. (Heck, our rent was only $28 per month! We’d always been on the edge of broke so this was big time.) I was about eight years old and dad stuffed our winnings into my pockets. We got our money safely home when he explained that we needed to return the next night to “re-invest.” This was my first lesson in high finance.

Name any adult responsibility and my dad pretty much failed miserably at it. He could not plan a doctor’s visit, a party, a family vacation, a meal, or any basics of daily life. He would show up one day with a brand new car, yet have no idea how he would pay for it. He loved candy and ice cream and was not opposed to substituting them for actual food.

Long after my parents had divorced, my dad lost everything and would certainly have been homeless had my mother (with the help of her brother) not created an apartment for him in her building. He lived there until eight years ago when I moved him to our town and got him an apartment nearby.

My dad was not many things that a parent should be. However, he was exceptionally good at one thing:

My dad was incredibly good at making people laugh.

For this reason, people loved being around my dad. They loved having him at parties, to dinners, and on their bowling teams. We loved him for this, too. Having dad at the dinner table was a guaranteed laugh-a-minute. He made weekends a blast. It was like having an overgrown kid running things. He’d rake leaves into giant piles so that we could all jump in them. He got a third-hand toboggan and elegantly painted all of our names on the front. He’d sing frequently and loudly. He’d rig toy guns in our front windows to deter potential thieves on our inner city block. He’d make contraptions out of coat hangers and aluminum foil so that the limited heat in our apartment would go to where we kids slept. He’d play at the park with us and do magic tricks and take us to the track when my mom would let him. In dad’s presence, life was never steady — but it was sure fun.

I recently read, “Being Mortal,” by Atul Gawande. This is a wonderful book and I recommend it to anybody struggling with the issue of aging parents. Inspired by the book’s message, I’ve been asking my dad when he felt that it might be time to let go and get off the medical slippery slope. This week, he finally summoned up an answer:

“When I can’t tell a joke. When I can’t make people laugh. When I can no longer connect with people. That is when life isn’t life for me any more.”  Once he said it, it was so clear. Humor was all that he had. It was all that he’d ever had. That was dad’s line in the sand.

I was relieved to hear it from him, not to assume it for him, and based upon his feedback;  my husband and I were able to make the decision to get hospice involved in  dad’s final chapter.

During this week, my daughter has been rehearsing for her school play. This year’s play is “Peter Pan.”  So while reflecting on my dad’s life, I’ve been listening to stories of Peter Pan and the lost boys, the boys who don’t want to grow up.  I hear the tick-tock of the crocodile more loudly than ever.  Neverland has never been closer.

Goodbye, Peter Pan.