I made the mistake of characterizing Steven’s help as heroic.  With a look of alarm, he disclaimed any hint of heroism.  Even before his reaction, I realized that “heroic” was not the right word.  “You’re a hero” is a lazy cliché, and I should have made an effort to find more accurate words.  He supplied them for me: “I was just glad to have been useful.”  I had watched him use his own feet to move Dad’s feet up the stairs and across the room to the bathroom or bed.  I had watched him help Dad shower in the hospital, passing dallops of soap to Dad’s own hands, and washing Dad’s inaccessible extremities.  Nurse Chloe had gently adhered special heel bandages because Dad’s heels pressing into the mattress, hour upon hour, day after day, had begun to blister his skin, and we worried the tissue would die from insufficient circulation.  And she had wrapped his feet and ankles in foot-shaped pillows to further reduce diabetic risk.  And my brother had used sanitary wipes to scrub Dad’s soiled shoes clean and white and like new.  He certainly had been useful, indispensable even.  And that is what sons and daughters ought to be in their parents’ old age: not heroes, but servants.  Useful.  Doing what needs to be done.  Meaning well while acting in all their weakness.  And they were.  And I naturally thought of another servant who washed out the stains and washed the feet and set the example for us all.  Steven flew home today, a home far away—and when people tell me I’m heroic, now, I demur, and reply that I am just glad to have been useful.

Photo above: a fresh bouquet today for Mom from a neighbor Church member.