Chapter 37 - harrison’s final illness changed what nora thought strength meant
Dad was eighty when his heart began failing seriously.
Nora was nineteen.
He knew.
We knew.
Nobody used the word dying at first.
Then Dad did.
“Stop talking like I’m going on vacation.”
Classic Harrison.
Nora cried.
Then tried to become useful.
Appointments.
Meals.
Medication.
He stopped her gently.
“We did this already.”
She laughed through tears.
“I know.”
“You don’t get promoted to nurse because I’m dying.”
That sentence devastated all of us.
During one of their last long conversations, Nora asked:
“Were you scared when you came into the house that day?”
Dad thought.
“Terrified.”
“You looked angry.”
“I was both.”
“Did kicking Dad make you strong?”
Dad looked at me.
“Absolutely.”
I glared.
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“No.”
“Coming when you called was strength.”
“Standing between you and danger was strength.”
“Losing control afterward was losing control.”
Nora nodded.
Dad touched her hand.
“Do not let anyone tell you strength means never being scared.”
“And don’t let anyone tell you anger proves you’re right.”
That was his final lesson to her.
May you like
Not rescue.
Restraint.
