Forgive me if you’ve heard this story but it really is worth retelling.
In the last year of his life, the fact that my father was in a wheelchair simply didn’t register with Mom.
“Hop up, Bob!” she would chirp, seeing only the strong handsome man she married in 1942. Most of the time, he would stay put but every once in a while he would forget that he couldn’t walk and hop, or at least lumber, to his feet.
And then, of course, he fell heavily to the floor.
“Mom,” I would explain, “Dad can’t walk. He is in a wheelchair.”
“No, he isn’t,” she would say,
God knows he was strong. He fell 22 times that year and didn’t break a bone.
Once I got on my knees and begged him, “Dad, when Mom tells you to hop up, please don’t.”
He would agree until the next time Mom would sing out, “Hop up, Bob!”
They adored one another.