Maundy Thursday in August

It was a hot, sticky day. August can be that way.

He had returned home from the hospital and was resting in his favorite chair, staring at the water outside.

Water was a soothing passion of his. Sailing, swimming, skiing, skipping stones.

He and his brother built their own boat as kids. It floated. I knew this story. He liked to tell stories.

But now, he rested. A misdiagnosis of prostate cancer was finally diagnosed. Too late.

I went for a visit. To have a chat. To stare at the water with him.

I looked around the room and saw his hospital “gift basket.” All the things that had been in his sterile, unimaginative, utilitarian room.  

A small kidney-shaped dish that held a generic toothbrush and toothpaste.

A clear, plastic urinal.

A cup with a sippy straw.

Socks with skid-proof soles.

A plastic, lidless box which had held his keys and wallet in the small cupboard next to his bed.

A stuffed toy meant to give comfort.

And a large, blue, plastic bin which held all these treasures.

I emptied out the bin, and on a whim (my unfortunate default position), I quietly filled the blue bin with warm water and a squirt of liquid soap. Bubbles. I dropped a bar of soap into the water.

I tried not to spill as I walked to his chair. I spilled a little.

Then I sat down at his feet, and he opened his eyes.

"I thought you might like a pedicure," I smiled. Blue eyes looked into blue eyes.

“Well, that's nice. I’ve never had one,” he said quietly.

I removed his slippers and gently put each foot into the tub.

He smiled.

He stared out at the water as I soaped up my hands and took his right foot. I held his heel in the palm of my hand and washed the sole of his foot, the top of his foot, in between each toe.

I held his left foot and repeated the process.

It was sweetly intimate.

I took out some nail clippers and did a job I knew he couldn’t do anymore.

I let his pedicured feet rest in the bubbly water as his eyes closed. Naptime.

The next day it was time for me to leave. I had a plane to catch. A flight from Florida back to Michigan. The days had gone quickly.

Even though he was weak and unable to stand by himself, he insisted on riding along to the airport. His brother helped him get into the car. We drove in silence.

When we got to the airport.  I leaned forward and kissed his gray head from the backseat. “I’ll see you soon, I promise.”

I got out of the car and saw him struggle to open his door.

“No, you don’t need to get out, I’m going in right there.” I pointed to the large sliding glass doors leading to the terminal.

He used all the energy he could muster (his great default position) and finally stood against the car. His arms (they used to be so strong) wrapped themselves around me and he leaned in.

“Thank you for washing my feet,” he whispered.

Watery blue eyes looked into watery blue eyes.

“You’re welcome, Dad.”

And that was Maundy Thursday in August 2001.