Bob Schnell Photography

This is my dad.

He is 87 years old and is going...if not strong, at least solid. He grew up the son of a tailor (who did some work for the local mob figures) outside of Chicago at the beginning of the Depression. He is a veteran of WWII and took part of the Normandy invasion. I grew up listening to his stories and imagining scenes out of Battle of the Bulge, or The Longest Day. It was not until I saw movies like Saving Private Ryan that I truly understood just how far from the truth my imagination really was. The fact that he did all these things at the same age that I was making a fool of myself in college was one of the most sobering realizations I have ever had.

But, now he is 87. He has gone from using a cane to walk, to a walker and finally to a wheelchair. His spine is a curved, arthritic mockery and his hands are gnarled and twisted. He also has descended into dementia at an alarming rate over the past year. We have seen the inside of far too many hospitals and assisted living facilities in that time.

I have seen my father in a way I never have before - vulnerable and confused. Childlike at times. I am at turns his son, his brother, an old friend, or a former sales colleague - but always someone he knows. I have seen the state of geriatric care in this country and am utterly appalled. The nursing staff have been universally bright and helpful doing a job I would shirk at the slightest opportunity. However, I no longer hold doctors in the same esteem I used to - to say the least. I have seen our individual future and it has changed me profoundly.

And yet, my father is cheerful almost all the time. He greets me by name and (other than complaining about the food), is mostly upbeat. I find him often in the hall, wearing the hat he bought in Germany long ago, visiting with the staff. He often flirts with the physical therapy nurses as well - so some things do not change after all. He lights up when he talks to my mother on the phone, or better yet when we bring her to visit.

I also see the melancholy he feels when we leave, and that is the arrow that haunts me most.

This is my dad.

Another year, and another trip to the beach with the family. We tried Atlantic Beach in NC this year, which is a bit farther south from the Outer Banks. It was a packed house with my daughter and son and their friends, as well as my brother, his wife and my niece and nephew.
These are just a few images from an evening hanging out on one of the decks.

Sorry, no pictures of my son Jake or his friend Patrick in this lot. They are both 16, and could not be torn away from the Rock Band game...