Dad called a couple of weeks ago to let me know that the condo in Miami was sold. He sounded weary over the phone, as if resigned to the amputation of a dead limb whose weight he could no longer bear.
Selling his stake in the Miami condo, that storied unicorn purchase made decades ago, was a profound symbolic shift.
Forty-odd years ago, Miami Beach was the domain of snowbirds who came seasonally to escape the winters in New York; elderly retirees in gold lamé; and refugees from Cuba.
My father was part of the Cuban diaspora that fled the island when Castro came to power. Although Dad eventually ended up in LA, he always missed the people, food and culture he'd grown up in.
When my uncle and a Miami-based friend offered Dad a one third share of a condo in a new development going up on a then sleepy beachfront, it seemed like an ideal opportunity to return regularly for a taste of home while offsetting the cost of ownership with rental income.
Miami would always be more theirs than mine. I recall a single family trip as an adolescent where we stayed in the two bedroom condo - we were four kids, flights were expensive, and it would not be until I was out of the house that an increased sense of financial security allowed my parents to make Miami an annual pilgrimage.
Once they became empty nesters, my parents spent two to three weeks every summer in the condo. It became a place of indulgence - lazy hours on the beach floating in bathtub warm water punctuated by sweet and potent Cuban coffees, late night domino tournaments with old friends, visits to extended family, even taking my mom to concerts by the latest Cuban-American artists.
The first time my parents met my then girlfriend (now wife) was on a visit where we stayed with them in the Miami condo. Mom and Dad picked us up at the airport, and their jaws dropped when they realized that her only suitcase was the tiny carry-on backpack she'd brought with her.
Years later, my wife and I brought our kids to stay in the Miami condo. We loved the excellent food, lazy beach days, proximity to wonderful public art and unbeatable location on the boardwalk. The tiny, aged condo was now hemmed in by luxury resorts and high rises. It remains a point of pride that on our return trip with kids, we once again traveled only with small carry-on backpacks.
The advent of social media allowed my parents to reconnect with childhood friends over the last few years. Elementary school acquaintances from Cuba and Mexico were rekindled via facebook, and reunions were held expressly to welcome my parents back when they returned to Miami.
It was a lovely time for them socially, one that unfortunately came to an abrupt halt with the pandemic.
Acceptance
The past year brought a series of health challenges. Each required a prolonged convalescence. Dad went through each of the stages of grief described by Kübler-Ross: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
Selling the condo was a matter of accepting the most recent loss of privileges.
A refreshingly candid family friend once recounted the experience of looking for a smaller home to downsize to during the empty nest stage many years ago. Their realtor had shown him and his wife an apartment in a luxury high rise, emphasizing the extra large jacuzzi tub.
The friend recounted how his realtor completely misread them: "Was he thinking that me with my bad back and my wife with her artificial hip are going to be having crazy sex in that tub?"
Dad's willingness to admit that he might not be in adequate shape to return to Miami any time soon reflected his acknowledgement of the imposition of new limits.
That stage for cross-country travel and indulgence (crazy sex or otherwise) seemed to be behind him. He will miss that sweet period of his life, but he also seems to appreciate how good he has had it.
Letting Go
Last summer I sold my surf kayak. The summer before, I'd sold the larger sea kayak I'd used to paddle along the coast as my workout. Back pain was making it increasingly uncomfortable to lift either kayak onto my roof rack or heft it down to the beach using a cart.
I loved the stage of life where kayaking was a source of pleasure out of proportion and a part of my identity, where chatting with the same beyond middle-aged surfers at the local spot reached only by a steep goat trail was the perfect amount of social interaction I needed a couple of times a week.
In place of time on a kayak, I've embraced cycling and substituted bodyboarding. I've recently resumed hiking with a vaccinated friend.
These recreations, like all pleasures, are pursued on borrowed time.
If I am fortunate like my father, there will come a day when I will feel like an eleven year old boy in a 70 odd year old man's body. When that day arrives it will serve me best to accept the constraints I am dealt with gratitude for the gifts I've received up until that point.
In Tuesdays With Morrie, Mitch Albom's book about a beloved teacher, Morrie memorably accepts the reality of his ALS diagnosis, telling his former student:
One day soon, someone's gonna have to wipe my ass.
Working in the ER means I get to meet decent people on the day their life changes drastically for the worse. A devastating diagnosis. The loss of their beloved. An incapacitating injury.
Losing what you once were; seeing the loss occur in others. Accepting that tomorrow you might be less than you are today.
Before middle age, I sought teachers that showed me the way to build and progress. I wished to emulate ambition.
These days, I listen most intently to those teachers who prepare me for loss and release. I wish to understand appreciation.