His hands shook, and his face was flushed with excitement. Sam leaned forward in the chair, as he had been taught, held firmly to the walker, and, in a split second, was standing up. With a look of determination on his weathered face, my father took one step after another. “Nothing’s going to keep me down,” he said as he wheeled his walker down the long hallway of the nursing home where he lived. A tall man, he took long strides but had an unsteady gait, much like a young colt learning to walk. To look at him, wearing his sturdy shoes, one would never guess he had only one good leg – and even that one had no toes. Nine months earlier, his other leg had been amputated below the knee. This was his first day back at his nursing home after being at a rehabilitation hospital for three months. People marvelled at his persistence.

A diabetic, he still ate chocolate bars, often hiding them in his pocket along with his numerous lottery tickets. Dad couldn’t really manage to cross the road to the corner store, so with a smile or even an offering of a cash tip, he lured visitors or fellow residents to fetch him his forbidden chocolate treats or a prized lottery ticket – his ticket to freedom. Before his amputation surgery, Dad had said he would rather die than lose his leg. Nevertheless, Dad lived on, fondly nicknamed by his family “the Energizer battery.” For most of his life, Dad had been a men’s wear salesman. He had been used to standing on his feet and loved taking long walks. To lose his leg was a bitter pill to swallow, and he was despondent for weeks after.

 Eventually, he grew to like the nursing home or at least make peace with it. His former cheerful yet salty personality returned, and he liked and cajoled with most of the staff, often pinching the nurses or therapists as they walked by. But then, sometimes, he got into heated arguments if they didn’t answer his calls fast enough.

Most of the time, he raved about the “delicious” food. However, some days when I arrived to visit, he complained bitterly about his last meal and threatened to leave if the food didn’t improve. Dad had made a few new male friends (a definite minority at the home), and they often hung out in the front lobby where all the action seemed to happen. Dad was the unofficial greeter at the home, yelling, “Hello” to all that entered. To my surprise, Dad enjoyed going to the religious services conducted in the basement synagogue of the home every Saturday morning. That was a side of him I seldom saw growing up. After a bit of persuading, he often attended the activities at the home: current events, arts and crafts sessions and residents’ birthday parties, especially if the refreshments were cake and cookies.

His wheelchair, seldom used, now sat empty in the corner of his room that he shared with three other men. At 86 years old, few thought he would succeed at the onerous task of wearing a prosthesis. The doctor who had performed the amputation and his team of therapists had said he wasn’t a candidate for prosthesis – it was for “mental reasons” they had refused him. “He would never remember what to do,” his doctor had said. Often, my Dad forgot my name, but now it appeared that he hadn’t forgotten how to walk. Dad persisted, badgering me each time I walked through the door of his nursing home to find another doctor who could fit him with a prosthesis. His persistence paid off, and finally, I found another doctor and hospital to rehabilitate him.

Molly, his wife of nine years, now in her late seventies, had been devastated when he was placed in a nursing home after the amputation - not that she could look after him anymore. Besides, their tiny apartment filled with two households of furniture left little room for my Dad to manoeuvre his wheelchair. Molly would not allow a stick of furniture to be discarded.

 Just weeks after he was admitted to the nursing home, Molly started feeling ill; she thought it was indigestion. Even so, she continued visiting Sam at the home, taking three buses to get there. While Sam and Molly often scrapped, they seemed to have a genuine affection for each other as well. Besides, they had enjoyed a pleasant social life, going to seniors’ dances and parties and even once to Florida. A short, buxom woman with a blonde, bouffant hairstyle, Molly and my Dad made an odd-looking couple, as my Dad was slender and at least a foot taller. She had been a saviour to my Dad (and me) after my mother had died. Dad kept assuring Molly he’d be up on his feet once again and come home to her. He still had dreams of pursuing his former life.

But now Molly was in hospital dying, having been admitted six weeks earlier and failing fast. Dad visited Molly every week, arranging the Wheel-Trans bus to pick him up and return him to the home. “Maybe she’ll come out of it,” my Dad had said, seeing her wither away week after week. After the last visit before she died, he finally broke down and cried. He had told her about being fitted for his new leg, but she had vaguely nodded and attempted a weak smile.

At 86, alone once more, Dad was starting over – again. He lived another year and a half and, near the end, battled more illness, pain and surgery. However, his humour and bad temper remained intact until his death. While torn-up lottery tickets may be my only inheritance, – courage, humour, strength, and tenacity will definitely be my rich legacy.