Wilted, withered, faded …

…maybe not the right words, but the first that come to mind. It’s not like we’ve ever really talked about things that mattered, but still—seeing him like this feels weird. I’m talking about my father—you might have guessed. I’ve been with my family for three days again, since my mom turned 80 yesterday. She doesn’t look it—especially compared to others her age. And considering everything she’s been through, physically and mentally, with my father’s illness and mine, she seems kind of invincible. The birthday dinner was low-key, which was nice. Good food and no distant relatives to make things awkward.

My father is gradually recovering from his brain surgery. He’s gaining physical strength, eating again, and smiling—mostly thanks to the cortisone they’re giving him. But I dread the moment they start cutting it back, the withdrawal symptoms, and the possibility that his appetite might vanish again—like it did not too long ago.

He’s always been a straight-up guy, always good for a laugh—though his humor is pretty flat. I can’t even pinpoint what gets him going, but it’s definitely not what I’d call funny. And yet, when he laughs, you kind of have to join in—that’s the jolly character he is.

Having been born during WWII and taking care of his mother, sister, and brother by the time he was nineteen, he grew up in real poverty. Not the way we casually throw the word around today—I mean days when they literally had nothing to eat. When stealing an apple or a tangerine was enough to get him into serious trouble with the police.

This profound fear of falling back into poverty shaped pretty much every decision of his life—whether it was buying a car or slapping me across the face. Often he came across as stingy and had no patience for anything intellectual. Reading a book was considered lazy. He can barely read or write. In other words, he and I never had anything in common.

When he was younger, he was as strong as an ox, able to weld a locker from scratch or repair anything. Now he’s reduced to this tiny, fragile figure who doesn’t even remember what he ate for lunch by evening. It saddens me deeply, and today I had to take a ride on his bike, to get away from him as much as from the nostalgia. In a few hours, I’ll wake up and catch the train back to Berlin. Who knows when I’ll see him again—or my mother, for that matter. In this weird situation…

Vic – no way out of here – Mancini