My Dad

Growing up, I never had a particularly close relationship with my father. After my accident, the distance between us only grew. Looking back, I think part of it was because he blamed himself for what happened to me. Whether it was the stress of my injury, years of unhealthy habits, or simply bad luck, about eight months after my accident he suffered a series of mini strokes.

His health declined quickly. He lost his job and spent most of his days at home. A few years later, when I was twenty-one, my mother asked him for a divorce. She had met someone else and was ready to move on with her life. My father was forced to move out, and suddenly he found himself alone.

For the first couple of years after the divorce, he drifted from place to place. The house stayed with my mother, and his only income came from Social Security Disability. At the time, I didn't fully appreciate how impossible it is to live on disability benefits alone. Now I do. Having been on disability myself for several years, I know firsthand that a monthly check barely covers the basics. Rent alone would eat up most of it.

Eventually, my father managed to purchase a double-wide manufactured home outside the tiny town of Walburg, about fifteen minutes south of Round Rock. He found a part-time job working as a clerk at H-E-B and tried to piece together a new life.

Even now, writing this brings tears to my eyes.

Watching his decline was heartbreaking.

This was a man who had grown up in one of Austin's wealthiest neighborhoods. A man who had once been successful in business and provided well for his family. But over the years, he squandered away his inheritance and failed to plan for the future. There was no college fund for my sister or me. No retirement savings. Nothing.

And there I was, a young woman trying to learn how to live life in a wheelchair while simultaneously helping care for the man I blamed for putting me in it.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

At the time, my father was drinking heavily.

Despite our complicated relationship, I visited him regularly. Usually, we'd go out to dinner or catch a movie. I think I kept showing up because I couldn't stand the thought of him being completely alone.

One evening, I arrived to pick him up for dinner and immediately knew something was wrong. He was obviously intoxicated.

I transferred into the driver's seat of my car while he took my wheelchair around to the trunk to break it down.

Suddenly, he stumbled and fell over the back of my chair.

Then he couldn't get up.

There was nobody around to help.

I sat there for a moment, staring at him, completely helpless.

Finally, I lowered myself onto the gravel driveway and began dragging myself toward him. With every movement, the sharp rocks scraped against my legs. By the time I reached him, I was bleeding.

But even then, I couldn't help him. He was too heavy for me to lift.

I remember sitting there in the gravel next to him, feeling completely defeated.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I called the police.

When they arrived, I explained what had happened. They helped my father back into the house and then lifted me into my wheelchair. Physically, I was bruised and scraped up.

Emotionally, I was shattered.

I drove away that night furious. Why was I the one taking care of him? Why was the daughter in a wheelchair rescuing the able-bodied parent? Why did I feel responsible for someone who had never really been responsible for me?

I didn't have any answers. I just had anger. And guilt. And sadness. And somehow, despite all of it, love.

As the years passed, my father's health continued to decline. More strokes followed. Eventually, he could no longer live independently, drive, or maintain a job.

My mother had moved on. My sister was still young.

The responsibility fell to me.

I became his power of attorney and took over his finances, medical decisions, and daily needs. I sold his house. Sold his car. Found an assisted living facility. Filled out endless paperwork. Attended doctor's appointments.

All while working full-time and going to school full-time.

To say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement.

I felt like I was carrying the weight of three different lives on my shoulders—my father's, my own, and the future I was desperately trying to build.

Most days I felt like I was drowning.

I remember taking my father to see Love Actually one Christmas season. There's a scene where Laura Linney's character spends her life caring for her disabled brother, constantly putting her own needs aside.

As I sat in that theater, I completely fell apart. The tears came out of nowhere. I wasn't crying about the movie. I was crying because I saw myself. I was in my twenties. I should have been finishing school, building a career, dating, and figuring out who I wanted to become.

Instead, I was caring for a father who had rarely been there for me when I needed him most.

Part of me resented him. Part of me loved him. And part of me simply couldn't walk away.

Because no matter how complicated our relationship was, I couldn't bear the thought of him facing the end of his life completely alone.

Years later, a day after his sixty-fifth birthday, I picked him up and took him to Texas Roadhouse for a steak dinner to celebrate.

It would be our last meal together.

When the food arrived, my father took a bite of steak and immediately began choking.

At first, I thought he would cough it up. Instead, his eyes widened. Then he collapsed.

I screamed for help.

People rushed from nearby tables. Someone attempted the Heimlich maneuver while another person called 911.

Within seconds, a stranger was performing CPR on my father as I sat frozen in shock.

I remember feeling completely helpless.

Again.

The paramedics arrived quickly and managed to restore his heartbeat before rushing him to the hospital.

I followed behind the ambulance in my car, crying so hard I could barely see the road.

At the hospital, doctors worked frantically to save him. A short time later, they brought us into a consultation room. The doctor didn't sugarcoat it. My father had gone too long without oxygen.

There was no meaningful brain activity. He wasn't coming back.

My mother and I sat with him and said our goodbyes. My sister spoke to him over the phone.

I told him I loved him. And I meant it.

Not because he had been the father I wanted. Not because he had always been there. But because he was my father. And despite everything, I loved him.

When it became clear that the end was near, I left.

For years, I've regretted that decision. Part of me wishes I had stayed and held his hand until his final breath. But at the time, I was overwhelmed by grief, fear, anger, and exhaustion. I simply didn't have anything left to give.

The days that followed were a blur of funeral arrangements, paperwork, and tears.

And then something unexpected happened.

Alongside the sadness came relief.

For years, my life had revolved around caring for my father. Every phone call carried the possibility of another crisis. Every week involved another responsibility. Every plan had to account for his needs.

Suddenly, all of that was gone. And I hated myself for feeling relieved.

My therapist later explained that relief doesn't cancel out grief. Both emotions can exist at the same time.

You can love someone and still feel relieved when the burden of caregiving ends. You can mourn someone and still feel free.

Learning that changed everything for me.

Today, when I think about my father, I think about all of it—the good, the bad, the resentment, the love, the heartbreak, and the forgiveness.

None of it exists separately. It's all part of the same story.

And in many ways, my father's legacy lives on in every push I make of my wheelchair.