“Taking Daddy to the Doctor: A Quiet Kind of Love” | By Roselyn A. St. Claire

When Caring Becomes a Conversation — Love, Duty, and the Quiet Moments in Between

My mom called me one day last week and said she wanted to talk when I had a moment. It didn’t sound urgent, so I moved through my day as usual and ended up seeing her the next day.

She told me that both my father and my brother needed to go to the doctor for checkups—but neither of them wanted to. I found myself thinking: How exactly am I supposed to make two grown men do something they clearly don’t want to do?

My dad had told her he wasn’t feeling much sensation on his entire left side. He also admitted he hadn’t taken his medication in a while.

I booked an appointment with the German doctor near my area in Indian Harbor. It was easier to access, and the thought of dealing with traffic and parking on the main strip stressed me out.

Later that night, my mom called again. She said Daddy wanted to thank me, but he was feeling better and didn’t think he needed to go anymore.

I wasn’t impressed.

The appointment was set for Wednesday at 1 p.m. Somehow, I’d already booked three meetings that day. I was going to have to juggle it all and hope I didn’t burn out.

I left home and drove to pick him up. I called my mom when I was nearby so she could have him ready and out front. That way, I wouldn’t have to go inside.

He came out in a long-sleeved blue-and-white plaid shirt, white jeans, and a cap. When he got into the car, my mom walked over and signaled to me with some crumpled bills in her hand—two hundreds and a twenty.

I told her it was fine, I’d cover everything. As she turned away, my father looked at me and asked how I could refuse money like that. “Whenever someone gives you money, accept it,” he said.

I should’ve known better. I called her back and took the cash—just in case we needed it for medication.

As we drove through the province toward the business center in the south of the island, he was animated. He pointed out old buildings, made side comments, and shared memories. We passed a man on a bicycle—someone he used to work with. Strangely, he’d mentioned that same man’s name just moments earlier, saying he hadn’t seen him in a while.

I swear I heard him mutter under his breath, “If I wanted to take him out, he wouldn’t even know it was me.” I smiled quietly to myself.

He was genuinely happy I was taking him to the doctor. He reminded me, like he often does, how when I was a child, he used to take me to town on weekends, spending his pay getting me food, clothes, and just hanging out with his firstborn.

I asked him, “Who gave me my name?”

He said by the time he arrived at the hospital, my mom had already chosen it. But he had another name in mind—he’d wanted to name me after his youngest sister, Gillian.

The drive was a string of small stories and comfortable silences. An oddly tender day. And still, I found myself quietly wishing it would rain hard enough to cancel everything.

We got to the doctor’s office half an hour early. The receptionist greeted us while on speakerphone. She paused her call to give us registration forms. It was a small, three-room clinic tucked inside one of the shopping malls in Long Island—reception, doctor’s office, and a bathroom.

The doctor—a tall, bearded German man—arrived soon after. Quirky, funny, and attentive. He spoke directly to my dad, listened carefully, and asked all the right questions.

Turned out, my dad hadn’t taken his medication for weeks. His blood pressure read 195. The doctor said that could definitely explain the numbness.

They talked for a while about his health, made a follow-up plan, and he was told to start taking B12. The doctor suggested we book an appointment with a cardiologist next.

I sat mostly in silence, watching. Watching my father being taken seriously. Watched someone listen to him without rushing. It felt good.

I paid the bill and then stopped by the nearby pharmacy to get his medication.

On the drive home, I asked again about my name. He repeated his answer—Mom named me, but he’d wanted Gillian. I thought about how, as a child, people often mixed up my name with my aunts’, sometimes even calling me Gillian by mistake. Maybe there was always a little piece of her meant to be with me after all.

It’s been a few days since I took him to that appointment. I called once but didn’t get through.

I haven’t tried again.

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Reflection

Caring for our parents sometimes means stepping into roles we never expected—becoming their advocate, their chauffeur, their memory-keeper. It’s a bittersweet path, filled with small victories and quiet frustrations.

Taking my father to the doctor was more than a medical errand—it was a reminder of the love and history between us, the unspoken stories carried in names and shared silences. A moment where past and present met, where duty mingled with tenderness.

Sometimes, the hardest part is accepting that we can’t protect those we love from every fear, every choice, every stubborn silence. All we can do is show up, hold space, and keep the line open—even when they don’t answer.

This is the complicated dance of family.

And it’s where love lives—in the imperfect, the unexpected, and the everyday.

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