“Hi, Daddy.” I lean down to his power wheelchair level and kiss his cheek. He doesn’t look like he’s in a great mood today. “How was your day?”
He grunts. “Fine. Yours?”
Finemeans bearable but not great.
“Good. I stopped at Annie’s before going to the ranch. Took Piper up to the mountain trail before her training session. She made all her jumps except one, so not too bad.”
I leave out the part where Piper and I got lost on our ride. I ended up walking her through some brush to get back on the trail. Though it made me nervous to be out there alone with only God knows what, I managed to keep it together long enough to find our way back.
“That’s great, sweetie,” Mom chimes in, entering the living room with an apron across her waist. “Dinner will be ready in a half hour if you wanna shower beforehand.”
“Sounds good.” I take the hint that I smell like a barn and walk down the hallway. Mom’s never been a lover of ranch animals, even though we have pets, and is obsessed with keeping everything clean at all times—including me.
Moose, my childhood boxer, follows me to my room. He’s ten years old and loves sleeping under my covers. When I was bedridden, he never left my side. He became my little therapy dog and still is.
Once I’ve washed off the smell, I meet my parents in the kitchen. Dad sits on the end, and Mom and I are across from each other. Her two Pomeranians, Shelby and Sasha, lie by our feet.
Moose tends to stay in my room and wait for me to return. He knows I’ll bring him treats or leftovers later.
The table’s already set, so after we say grace, we dive in.
“Is there parmesan cheese?” Dad asks Mom.
“I sprinkled some on top of the sauce,” Mom replies without glancing up from her plate.
“More like half a sprinkle…” Dad grumbles.
“Do you want some more, Daddy?” I ask, smirking around my words.
This is a regular occurrence. Mom wants Dad to eat healthy and he wants to eat whatever he wants without being told otherwise.
Pushing back against my chair, I stand and go to the fridge. Dad sits in a regular dining chair at the table, so he’s not mobile until he goes back into his power chair or uses his walker.
“Here, Daddy. Not too much.” I set the cheese next to his plate.
“Thanks, sweetie.” He grabs a handful and smothers his pasta.
When I sit, Mom’s narrowed eyes meet mine, and I shove food into my mouth to hide the grin forming across my face.
It’s bad enough he has minimal control over his life, so if a little extra cheese makes him happy, then so be it.
After dinner, Mom serves fruit and Greek yogurt parfaits. A few minutes later, Dad groans in agony, his eyes pinch closed, and he releases a whimpered groan.
“You okay?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“I’m gonna take some meds and go to bed,” he responds, not bothering to finish his dessert.
Mom brings over his chair and helps him get settled before he takes off through the living room toward their bedroom.
It’s not uncommon for Dad to go to bed early. Or take a few naps throughout the day. He suffers from chronic phantom limb pain—ever since his work accident eight years ago when he lost his leg.
The amputation cut is above his knee, close to his hip, so wearing a prosthetic is next to impossible.
But his brain still sends signals, thinking it’s there, and because the nerves are damaged and oversensitive, he experiences pain from the part of the leg that no longer exists. His body and brain are at a constant war with each other.
There’s no cure for phantom limb pain because it’s neurological, but there are temporary treatments. There’s mirror therapy, nerve pain medication or opioids, but nothing that can numb it completely. Dad’s almost always suffering, and even though he’s developed a high pain tolerance, it’s not always tolerable.
It puts him in a bad mood more often than a good one.
