Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Saturday, June 20, 2015
After my father died I dreaded and hated Father's Day. I had a Father's Day related grief meltdown in Target. I avoid retail establishments as much as possible from the day after Mother's Day until the end of June. I know avoidance isn't the best way of dealing with an emotional (or any) problem. So, this year I decided to confront the Father's Day retail season. I've been to Target twice during the Father's Day season. I took deep breaths, summoned emotional courage and walked into Target. And the greeting card aisle in Walgreens. And I had to return a skirt for my mother at Macy's. These are heavy hitters of merchandising and display and I faced them. I confronted my grief.
I like to think my dad would be proud that I finally took this step to confront my emotional hurdles. My dad was like that: He dealt with stuff head on. He didn't let things fester. Some of that is because dads have to deal with stuff head on, at least in my family. My dad was the one who dealt with broken things that required immediate repair or replacement. Plumbing, cars, anything wired - things we needed daily - those were my father's responsibility. If something broke he sprang to action. He had to spring to action because a family with three kids and a plumbing problem is unpleasant. He had to confront problems or things would only get much (much) worse. A coworker was talking about a broken car problem a few weeks ago. I said, "Yes, AAA is good, but it's times like these a dad is really handy to have around." She laughed and said her father was useless. Useless. I'm not sure if she meant useless with cars or useless in general. It felt a little uncomfortable, she seemed to have some father contempt, so I just said,"Oh, well, thank goodness for AAA!" Her offhand description of her father stuck with me. My father was not always perfect, but, one word I could never use to describe my father is useless. My father was the opposite of useless. But I don't like to think of my dad in terms of usury. I know not everyone is fortunate enough to have a great dad. I feel really, really sorry for those people. They have to face life with an unfortunate disadvantage. Life isn't always easy for me, I've had some difficult stuff to handle. But. No matter how bad the situation I have one reconciliation: I won the parent lottery. When it comes to life factors I hit the mega million jackpot with my parents. People like my coworker, who describe their father's with adjectives like "useless" don't have the advantages I had. He wasn't a good dad. He was a great dad. Here's what we get when
we are lucky enough to have been given great fathers. We get wisdom, joy, firm
but fair discipline, unwavering support, the secret to riding a two wheeler and
tricks for memorizing multiplication tables. We get the toys our mothers deem
too dangerous or expensive and the explanations for all things mechanical,
athletic and scientific. We get gently coaxed into the deep end of the pool and
we get bedtime stories narrated in deep, funny voices. We get the pronunciation
and proper use of swear words and the importance of a firm but not creepy handshake. We get
stern warnings about fire, force and speed and lessons in how to use tools and
why it's important to take care of them. We get yelled at when we lash out in
teenage anger, and we get forgiveness 10 minutes later. We get introduced to
the mysteries of outer space through fact and fiction. We get to listen to Elvis, Bo Diddley and Ronnie Hawkins. On the way to church. And we learn the importance of a decent set of speakers and a quality amplifier. We learn that sometimes presents are brought home from business trips. And sometimes they're not. We get an extra $20 surreptitiously slipped to us on our way out the door and a sly "don't tell your mother" glance. We get Barbie Dream Houses constructed and waiting for us on Christmas morning, and we get a lecture on the importance of taking care of things and not carelessly breaking them. We get long summer evenings around the backyard barbecue, and longer winter nights at the kitchen table going over homework until we get it right. We get picked up from school dances and a ride home without having to talk about what happened at the school dance. We get an
understanding that true bravery has nothing to do with wrestling bears or
shooting guns. We get shoulder rides when we're little, and we get jocular pats on the back and hugs so tight and enveloping it gets hard to breathe for a few seconds when we're too big to sling up on shoulders. We get the threat of being disowned if we ever so much
as consider skipping an oil change every six months or take the batteries from
the flashlight and use them in the portable radio. And we get to always, always
feel safe. We come out ahead in the deal, especially since we did absolutely nothing to earn any of that
except to arrive screaming into his world, demanding his time, knowledge and
money. Here's the problem with
great dads: You also get the emptiness and loneliness when they're gone.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Amidst all the crap in my life right now I vowed that I would not be felled by Father's Day this year. I'm a fatherless on Father's Day pro, now. I'm through The First Year. Everything's supposed to be easier and less emotional after all the firsts are on calendar pages past.
Part of the plan was retail establishment avoidance. And that helped. A lot. After last year's Father's Day Target Meltdown I learned the best defense is avoidance. Very easy this year since I'm unemployed and don't go anywhere except my telemarketing gig.
Since LOST ended I don't watch a lot of television - other than Spongebob - so not a lot of playing on emotions Father's Day sales ads to avoid.
So the avoidance technique has helped, a lot.
Father's Day itself will still be rough - I know it will.
I dunno. The whole "gets easier after the first year" thing doesn't seem to be ringing true. Maybe it would be easier if I had a crappy or even mediocre dad. But I have a great dad. And I miss him.
A few months ago my mother assigned me the task of sorting through a file drawer in my dad's office. We've been slowly going through stuff. We're making progress. But my dad's office...ugh. My mother and I avoid it as much as possible. But it reached the point where we can't avoid it, we have to deal with stuff in there. My mother asked me to go through a file drawer that had a bunch of warranties and instruction manuals and receipts for appliances, tools...dad stuff.
My mother is receipt crazy. She's big on keeping receipts. My mother's voice echoes in my head a lot. And quite often the reverberating words say, "Make sure you get a receipt." Or, "You did keep the receipt, didn't you?"
My dad learned early in their marriage that one of the keys to keeping harmony in their marriage was getting and keeping receipts. I found receipts and warranties dating back to a few months after their marriage. They weren't filed and labeled all neatly and organized, but it wasn't a haphazard mess, either. It was kind of sort of chronological. And a lot like an archeological excavation in a tomb that was used by several dynasties through several ruling countries. 17th century Roman coins next to 5th century Asian silk next to 12th century Celtic pottery.
I hit a vein of receipts for stuff like appliances and carpet and a lawnmower and a crib. Yeah. A crib. Based on the date on the receipt my mother signed for the delivery of it a few months before my birthday. It's been a long, long time since I slept in a crib. But my dad still had the receipt for my crib. I was chuckling at that, knowing my dad would have tossed the receipt but didn't because he thought my mother might want to refer to it at some point. Because that's what my mother does. She refers to receipts. And woe to the person who can't proffer a receipt when my mother requests one. We even have a joke about it in our family. "Did you get a receipt?" "Let's have a look at the receipt." "Keep the receipt!"
So I was smirking a knowing and conspiratorial smirk to my dad about the receipt for my baby crib. When they found out they were expecting a third child (me), my parents decided to buy a bigger home. A bigger home way out in the country, far away from the city. It was a long commute for my dad but worth it for the peace and quiet out in the country. And how great for us kids to have a huge yard and the freedom to run and ride bikes all over the place without worry? The receipts from that era tell a story of a family going through a growth spurt and life style change. Receipts for a lawnmower - riding; a washer/dryer combo; a freezer; carpet for four rooms- a staircase and hall; a crib. And a baby.
Yep.
Right there in my dad's warranty and receipt file was a small yellow slip of paper from the county clerk's office. In the info portion there's a handwritten notation, "Baby girl McMillian, $3.25. Cash. Rendered to father." Cash was underlined. Twice.
Yes. My dad paid $3.25 (cash) for me. He kept the receipt to prove it. The date on the receipt was about seven days after my birth.
My mother told me "back then" mothers and babies stayed in the hospital several days, even a week, after delivery. (Her editorial comment was, "That was a much better idea than how they rush mothers and babies home so quickly now. Mothers need some time to rest and adjust.") And before you could leave the hospital with your baby you had to get the birth certificate from the county clerk's office. Kind of like proof of insurance when you take delivery of a new car. Proof of paternal ownership. You show up with a birth certificate from the county clerk's office, you get the baby. My dad was sent to procure the birth certificate from the county clerk's office so they could take me home.
But. The receipt, by itself, looks like a receipt for a baby. A baby who cost $3.25. Cash. (Underlined twice.)
Okay, I get the whole county clerk rigmarole. And I understand my father's concern about keeping my mother happy by keeping receipts. But. The reason my mother is so funny about receipts is that she worries about the "just in case it breaks or you have to return it" possibilities. My mother also believes that paying in cash gives the consumer negotiating power. But it also comes with risks so you always have to get a receipt when you pay cash for anything. Even a baby.
But.
Um.
Still.
Tucked in amongst a receipt for a lawnmower, carpet and a freezer was a receipt for me.
I'm sure my mother's "be sure to get a receipt" advice was ringing in my dad's ears when he went to procure the birth certificate. But why did he keep it all these years?
I thought when I dug deeper on my excavation I'd find receipts for my brother and sister. I thought it would be funny to give them to them. "Dad kept the receipts for us!"
But I never found receipts for my brother or sister. Maybe I was special. They thought they might need proof of ownership. Or maybe he and my mother had concerns. "Keep that receipt. Just in case she breaks or we want to return her..."
Or my dad tucked the receipt away with all the other receipts of that hectic time and forgot about it.
And many years later I unearthed it, the first time it saw the light of day since way back then. As a stand-alone piece of paper - without the information my mother gave me about having to procure the birth certificate from the county clerk's office before taking the new baby home - it's pretty funny. "Baby Girl...rendered to father...$3.25. Cash." I'm keeping it, maybe even get it framed. My dad paid $3.25, cash, for me. He kept the receipt to prove it.
The conventional wisdom is that all the firsts are the hardest. “They” say it gets easier after the first year.
Oh. Okay.
Great. Grief is like drinking shots of Jagermeister. And prostitution. And serial killing. The newsbites always show a dead-eyed, remorseless perp – an alcoholic out of control, a prostitute, a serial killer – confessing and saying: “After the first one it was easy.”
It gets easier after the first one.
I knew Father’s Day would be the rough one for me. I mean, it’s all rough, but Father’s Day, well, that’s different.
The holidays sucked. My mother and I were numb. Like lost children we hesitantly took one step at a time through the holiday season and we made it. We did it. I won’t say we were unscathed, it sucked, but, we did it. My siblings have children. They said they could put aside their grief and celebrate for the sake of their children. That’s admirable. They said that’s what Dad would do. That’s how Dad would want it. I agree. But I guess my lack of children prevents me from understanding how you just “don’t think about it” when the holidays were our dad’s favorite time of year and everything, everything holiday related is conspicuous with his absence.
Even though I anticipated Father’s Day angst and woe, I never could have predicted the complete meltdown I had at Target a few weeks ago. I mean, Mother’s Day was barely over, I thought I had at least a week, or two, before the Father’s Day merchandising affront would power up.
So that fateful day in May when I innocently, even glibly, walked into Target for toilet paper and laundry detergent and got hit with CELEBRATE DAD!!! banners festooned from the ceilings and aisle displays showcasing GREAT GIFTS FOR DADS!!!! was rough for me. Really rough.
I soldiered on past the entrance thinking, “Just stick to the household goods aisles, get your toilet paper and laundry detergent and get out of here. Keep your gaze down. Don’t look up. You can do this. It’ll be over in a few minutes.”
It wasn’t. It was awful. They had Father’s Day stuff everywhere. Everywhere. Even in the household goods aisles. I’m sure it must be my heightened sensitivity to it this year, but I don’t remember this much hype and merchandising for Father’s Day in the past. I recall Father’s Day being lumped in with graduations, weddings and Summer barbecue season. “Dads and Grads” sales, “Barbecues and Dads” specials, that kind of thing. But this year everywhere I go it’s “Celebrate DAD!” “Father’s DAY!!” “Don’t forget Dad!”
It was a “Don’t Forget Dad!” display that brought me to my knees on that fateful day in Target. “Don’t forget Dad. Don’t forget Dad?! How dare you, how dare you even suggest that I would, or could, forget Dad?!!!”
After that my memory is a little fuzzy. I remember my heartbeat getting really loud and feeling like it was going to beat out of my chest and I remember feeling disoriented and then I don’t remember anything until I realized a woman in a red shirt was talking at me in broken English. And I was crouched down on the floor of the aisle. And I was crying. Okay. Sobbing. Okay. Doing that choked breathing, snot spurting body jerking in wracks kind of sobbing. The woman had her hand on my shoulder. Some kid at the end of the aisle, a young tyke, was saying, “But Mommy, why is she crying?”
That kid made me snap-to. Pulled me into awareness. The awareness that I was crouched down on the floor in a Target, sobbing, with a woman in a red shirt talking at me in broken English. I fumbled in my purse for a tissue, wiped my eyes and finally looked up at the red-shirted woman. She was a Target employee. She was being nice but firm. “Djew better now? Djew canna stay here. Security will come.” She pointed to a round globe in the ceiling. Security cameras.
Oh swut. Security?! Seriously, security? Has it come to this? In spite of my incredulousness, the innate fear of authority kicked in and I stood up, trembling, fumbling for my purse and shopping basket. I was acutely aware, then, of the security camera which of course made me more prone to odd looking behavior. I had difficulty steadying myself on my feet – which I have trouble with under the best of conditions thanks to my injury/surgery – and the harder I tried to stop the tears, the more they came. I did want to get out of there, ASAP, pronto!, but I couldn’t make my body respond as quickly as my brain wanted it to respond.
I heard the bleep of the red shirted woman’s walkie talkie. And then a pubescent boy’s voice. “Khhhschk, Esmerelda, come in. bleep” The red shirted woman pulled the walkie talkie from it’s holster. “Si? bleeep”
“Khhhschk. Have you started recovery? bleep”
“Si.”
In my disoriented (and somewhat paranoid) state I thought recovery was code for “removing the sobbing woman from the store.” That set a fire under me. I said, “I’m going, I’m going, I’m okay, I’m all right.” Then, “My dad died.”
I’ve only said that a few times since my dad, well, died. Stating that fact, that obvious truth, is difficult for me. I hate the euphemisms “passed away” “lost”…I hate those stupid euphemisms, always have. And I don’t use them. I like the absolute certainty, the finality, the undisputable factuality of the verb died. Die, dies, died. Dead. Deceased. See? I can think it, type it. But. Even though in my head I say it, use that term, come to terms with that verb, saying it, hearing the words from my mouth, is hard. Understandable, right? Yes, of course it is. But. It’s something I’ve been trying to deal with, manage, a conclusion I’ve been trying to reach. Saying it. “My dad died.” I mean, it’s just three words. A statement of fact. My dad did die. I was there. I saw them lower the casket in the ground. I’ve seen the gravestone. He is dead. See? I can think about all of that, type it, and while it’s not “easy” I can do it. But saying, “My dad died” is supremely difficult for me. My mother and I went to grief counseling. There I learned that I’m not in denial, I’m not repressing anything (or, well, anything more than normal during the grief process). And yet, I don’t make the words go from my head to my tongue.
And yet again, there, in Target, under pressure and threat of security removal, out came the words: My dad died.
After I got out of there I realized that I didn’t blurt it out as an excuse in hopes of calming the store clerk and regaining some credibility as a “normal” person. I blurted it out for me. I needed to hear it. I needed to validate my hurt and sadness and resentment over the intrusion of merchandising on my bereaved sensitivities. “Don’t Forget Dad!” hit a nerve. Believe me, I will not forget dad. How dare you insinuate that I would? Saying, out loud, “My dad died” wasn’t an excuse uttered to hopefully recoup my sanity in the eyes of store security. It was my “SHUT UP!! LEAVE ME ALONE!” to Father’s Day merchandising displays everywhere.
I high-tailed it out of there. I feel bad. I left my laundry detergent on the floor. Esmerelda probably had to put it back on the shelf during recovery. The merchandising displays in the store weren’t her fault. My grief isn’t her responsibility. It’s mine, I have to manage it. If I can’t then I shouldn’t put myself in situations I can’t handle.
Since then I’ve run the merchandising gauntlet a few times. It doesn’t get easier. But. At least I expect it. I know what I’m facing and if I’m not feeling emotionally strong enough for it I avoid it. I haven’t been out much in the past month. And in just a few days it will be over and it will be safe for me to venture out to buy toilet paper and laundry detergent and whatever else I need again.
I told my grief counselor about the Meltdown in Target. (MIT, as we call it) She doesn’t believe in the terms normal or okay, because there’s no such thing as normal, or okay behavior when it comes to grief. I’m down with that. But she calmed me by saying it happens to people more than I realize. Triggers are everywhere and at any given time, any given place, something will touch a deep, raw grief nerve and set off a meltdown.
Here’s what I’ve learned. We’re all teetering on the brink of emotional distress, a meltdown. If you’re sitting there thinking, “Nope, not me, I’m not emotionally volatile. I keep it in check. I’m cool under pressure. I know how to manage my emotions, there’s a time and a place and do my breaking down in private or I go to the gym” oh boy, do I pity you. I thought that, too.
And then my dad died.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not wishing this on anyone. And I know there’s nothing I can say that will make you understand what “it” is really like. You have to experience it for yourself. Because it’s very personal. But. I will say this: If you think you can handle it, if you think “it’s part of life, it happens, I’m prepared for it” please consider a revision. For the sake of your own sanity I strongly suggest that you at least consider the possibility that you are not prepared for it and that it will hit you in different ways than you anticipate. It will kick you so hard in the ass, when you least expect it, that you’ll be stymied to figure out what “it” even is.
It’s weird. Sometimes I can write or talk about my dad without a single pang of sadness or despair. Other times I can’t even think of the concept of fatherhood without welling up in tears. Grief.
After the MIT my grief counselor gave me an assignment. It’s the same assignment she’s been giving me for several months. I keep neglecting it. She’s been “okay” with my undone homework assignment. When I meekly admit I haven't done it she says, “When you’re ready." I’ve done other assignments, but not this one.
The concept is to examine, embrace or come to terms with what you got from the deceased. Literally, figuratively, whatever. It’s a big heady topic for me. What did I get from my dad? Sheesh, you name it. And that’s the problem. It’s too overwhelming – I mean, what a question! While it can be a literal gift, I don’t think “He gave me a pen from the Henry Ford Museum.” is really getting to the point of the assignment.
One time we had to take two photos to our session. One was supposed to be a favorite photo, the other was supposed to be a good likeness of him. Surprisingly, those are typically two very different photographs for most people. I could see the counselor looking at the photos of my dad for similarities, some likeness, some genetic indication he’s my father. The evidence is not immediately seen in the blond, blue eyed man staring out of those photos. She looked at the photos. And then at me. And then at my mother. And then at the photos. And then at me. My mother finally chimed in, rolling her eyes for the bazillionth time at the unspoken insinuation.
“No, she’s not adopted. Trillian, smile.”
I dutifully did what my mother told me to do.
“Ahhh, yes, yes, oh my yes, the resemblance is obvious when you smile,” the counselor gushed. She seemed a little too relieved. I think maybe she thought she opened Pandora’s Box with this whole photo assignment, that there was another issue she’d have to tackle along with “just” the death of a father. “Whew, she’s not adopted” was the palpable sentiment in her response.
My mother said, “And when she doesn’t style her hair you can see her curls. And she didn’t get those broad shoulders and strong bones and muscles from my family.”
So we’d already covered the genetic ground.
Rogue curls in my hair. Strong, sturdy bones and muscles. A tendency to put on belly weight. Long fingers. Long feet. Broad shoulders. The ability to curl my tongue. A full, pouty, downward turned lower lip that morphs into a wide smile. Prominent skyscraper high cheekbones. A hearty laugh. A high tolerance for physical pain.
Curiosity. Ethics. Love of language and words. Loyalty. Family above all else. Compassion. Music. Humor. Responsibility. Professionalism. A sense of adventure. Commitment. A stubborn determined streak. Respect for nature. Duty to animals, the environment, the community and those less fortunate.
He gave me a warm, safe stable home in good school districts, food, clothing, health care, orthodontia, college degrees, big Christmases, birthday parties, road trips, vacations, summer camp, toys, books, music, rock tumblers…I mean, what more could a kid want?
He taught me how to swim, ride a bike, sail a boat and drive a car. All before I was 13. And he taught me how to tread water, hold my breath longer under water, fix a flat tire, repair a spoke, tighten a bike chain, wear a life jacket, tie an Anchor Hitch and a Sheet Bend (and when to use them), wear a seat belt, put gas and oil in a car, open a stuck choke, change a tire, keep $20 stashed in the seat spring and where the local cops set speed traps. All before I was 13.
Thanks to my dad I can start a fire without lighter fluid or propane, but also thanks to him I know it’s a lot more fun, and easy, to do it with lighter fluid. And I know to have some sand and/or water handy when open flames are present.
I know that Scotch doesn’t taste like it smells and that beer tastes worse than it smells, and both aren’t worth drinking if they’re cheap. I know how to make a martini and sip wine. And I know when to say when. Thanks, Dad.
He taught me that education is a life long process and stimulating your brain is what separates humans from animals. And that learning is not only good for you, it’s fun. Though, in spite of his valiant efforts to try, oh how he tried, to teach me math we learned that education is not always fun. In that process we both learned a lot. He learned that he sired a child with no cranial capacity for numbers and that he would have to teach me how to rely on words, cunning and wit because I would never be able to rely on math skills. I learned that my dad was the smartest man on the planet because he knew multiplication tables all the way up to his nineteens. In what became a test of wills, an epic struggle for understanding, we spent agonizingly tense evenings learning a lot about patience and humility and how very, very different we are. And how the mere mention of the term “multiplication tables” makes my head hurt so badly I have spasms like those kids in Japan who had seizures watching cartoons. And that in end, no matter how stupid I am, no matter how much temper he lost trying to get it through my thick skull that math is fun, dammit, in the end, in spite of my numeric inabilities, he still loved me. He eventually learned to accept my lack of numeric acuity but didn’t cut me slack on my homework and grades. “You’re going to have to work harder than the other kids.” We came up with creative work-arounds, ways to get the most out of math classes in spite of my numeric handicap. He taught me that acceptance is good, but giving up is not acceptable. (See above, stubborn determined.)
I learned some really, really good naughty words from my dad. The good ones. The ones they’re talking about when they say, “make a sailor blush.” And I learned that it’s usually not okay to use those words because there are much better, much more intelligent, much more powerful words. But should I ever find myself in the company of longshoremen I’ll be able communicate like a native. (Thanks, Dad.)
He gave me the gift of navigating the world of leading men. James Bond, Steve McQueen, Paul Newman and Indiana Jones are the go-to men of action and cool. Peter Sellers and Bugs Bunny are the supreme comedic geniuses. Cary Grant and Gregory Peck are what every man should aspire to be and what every woman should expect in a man.* He and my mother introduced me to Alfred Hitchcock and Stanley Kubrick and protected me from Old Yeller and Bambi.**
What is the point of this assignment? He gave me so much, I mean, where do I start and where do I end?
Ahhhhh.
There it is. This is what I got from my dad.
On long car trips when I was a kid I would inevitably ask, “When are we gonna get get there?” or “How much farther?” or “Are we there yet?” My dad had a couple answers at the ready. A) He’d toss a map into the back seat at me and tell me where we were and then, “You figure out how much farther. And let your mother and I know. We were wondering the same thing.” or B) “There? And then what? There’s always a new there. As long as the sun comes up tomorrow there will always be a new there. We’ll never actually be there because there is not a fixed constant. It’s a dynamic abstract variable.” or C) “Yes, Trillian, we are there.” “Then why are we still in the car?” “There is wherever we are. No matter where you go, there you are. This is there, make the best of it.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. My dad threw out dime store philosophy to us kids with a “Wrap your feeble little minds around this for a while. That oughta shut you up for a couple hundred miles” attitude.
But the thing is, even though my dad really liked to make good time, put a lot of road behind us, mess with our young minds, he always stopped along the way. You know the beginning post card sequence of the original Family Vacation? I laughed so hard I nearly wet my pants when I saw it the first time. Why? Because I’ve been to many of those places. He also was a back road kind of guy. Oh sure, he took the highways when he really wanted to make some good distance, but he liked the back roads. Liked to really see and experience what’s out there. Sometimes travel plans would change because something else was more appealing. Yes. At times we were wayward vagabonds. Eventually I figured out the whole “it’s about the journey, not the destination” aspect. I stopped asking “Are we there yet?” and grew to appreciate travel, the actual experience, as much as the destination. I’d gather my own maps prior to a trip and mark all the things I thought looked or sounded interesting and kept an eye out for them along the trip. He taught me how to enjoy the ride, the journey, to just roll with it.
And just like that I realized why I have difficulty saying, “My dad died.”
He reached a final destination. He arrived. There. There are no more journeys, no more back roads, no more dime-store philosophy on here and there, no more marked up maps with routes traveled and routes changed. No more wayward vagabonding. This is incongruous to him, his personality. This is a guy who never asked, “How much farther?” or “Are we there, yet?” This is the guy who said, “Let’s go!” and “Wow, look at that!” And the same guy who would get just as excited about returning home.
It bothers me, a lot, that my dad died while we were planning a vacation. We were making big plans for a big trip. We had maps with points of interest circled and highlighted. We were going to be wayward vagabonds, good little Vikings true to our heritage minus the raping and pillaging. Knowing we’d be content with whatever else we found along the way. Lately I console myself that there’s an aptness to him leaving mid-trip-planning. No matter when my dad died he would have been in the middle of planning a trip or actually on a trip. He didn’t know he was going to die. I mean, right then. He knew eventually, some day, he would die but he didn’t know he was there yet. He assumed there was a lot farther to go. He was thinking about the next adventure, the next journey, the thrill of discovery. And the contentment of returning home. (Please spare me the religious metaphor of “going home.”) It’s appropriate and it’s good and it’s a gift I am much more aware of these days.
*For years, and I mean, years I thought my dad actually knew Gregory Peck because he referred to him as Greg even though I only ever heard him called Gregory. The way my dad called him Greg, just like that, no big deal, Greg, implied that he was on close terms with Mr. Peck. I dunno. It’s kind of weird but funny now that I think about it. My dad wasn’t one of those guys who customarily got overly familiar with complete strangers, and he didn’t do it with other actors, Laurence Olivier was never Larry, for instance. Although… Robert DeNiro was Bob. Robert, Bob, if you’re out there, did you know my dad?
**One day, when he apparently deemed me “old enough” he asked me if I wanted to see Bambi. You might not understand the significance of this, but it’s akin to a father asking his son if he wants to go to go have a beer behind the garage. “Don’t say anything to your mother. But if you want to see it I’ll take you.” I knew about Bambi. I heard kids talk about it. My brother and sister told me the plot summary. I knew why my parents decided to prohibit me from seeing it. I was okay with that. But when my dad clandestinely asked if I wanted to see it, all stealth-like, I couldn't resist the temptation. Even though I was several years older than the other kids who would be in the audience I was scared of it. But I decided to do it, to grow up and deal with, grit my teeth and take my rite of passage.
My dad told my mother we were going to see Clash of the Titans (speaking of Laurence Olivier) and we then drove to a theatre 40 miles away so that we wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. It would be typical for my dad to sneak me out somewhere only to run into 10 of my mother's closest friends.
And, oh yeah, my parents were perfectly okay with me seeing Clash of the Titans but Bambi was off limits. I’m not saying my parents were logical people or conventional people. But my dad was a good dad.
He knew the movie so the plan was that just before things were going to turn fatal for Bambi’s parents he’d give me The Signal and I’d go get Milk Duds. He gave me money for the Milk Duds and everything. I was to look at my watch as I left the auditorium and make sure I stayed in the lobby 5 minutes before returning.
The anticipation of the signal was greater than the anticipation of the movie. I didn’t care as much about what I wanted see as I did about what I didn’t want to see. Ahhh, there’s a loaded life lesson.
But here’s the thing. I saw my dad starting to squirm and fidget. It was an old theatre, the seats were uncomfortable. But the next thing I knew my dad was grabbing my elbow and saying, “C’mon, c’mon, hurry up! Get out of here!”
So much for our plan and The Signal. My dad nearly broke a local track record up the aisle of the theatre, going so fast I struggled to keep up with him. He was practically dragging me. When we got to the lobby my dad did one of those big fake stretches and said “expletive seats, uncomfortable.” Then he blinked and rubbed his eyes, “Boy, it sure is bright out here after being in the dark theatre.”
Silence.
“I forgot to look at my watch,” I finally said.
“[expletive] me, too.”
“Should I still buy Milk Duds?”
“Yeah, let’s have Milk Duds.”
When he figured it was safe to return we sat in seats close to the back. The next NC-Trillian scene approached and this time my dad gave me the signal.
And followed me out “to make sure I was okay.” [Expletive] seats. Bright lobby. Twizzlers.
The ride home was completely silent. All 40 miles. Not a word was uttered. No radio. Nothing. My dad drove about 25 MPH with the brights on the entire 40 miles. He sat much more upright and alert than he normally did when driving, darting his unblinking peer from the road ahead to the shoulders of the road all the way home. I knew he was watching for deer. So was I. Not a word. Complete silence the entire ride home. At 25 MPH. With the brights on. Watching for deer.
As we got out of the car in the garage all he said was, “Clash of the Titans. Medusa. Perseus. Andromeda. Big scary monsters. You know the story.”
Yeah, Dad, I know the story.
I never have seen Clash of the Titans. Nor have I seen The Scenes in Bambi. And yes, yes, I’m sure they’re on YouTube and no, no, I don’t need help locating them.
Monday, June 16, 2008
I’ve always hoped my parents would be spared a “difficult” end. I reason “hey, they’re nice people, good people, caring people, kind people, surely they’ll be given an easy out.”
No, I don’t like to think about The End, but when the thought finds its way into my conscience I play the reasoning game. “We all have to die sometime. My parents are not immortal. I’m not immortal, we all have to go. Please give them the final kindness of a quick, painless end to their lives.”
Then I think, “Yeah, but that's just it, it’s how you go that really gets ya. Slow and painful is cruel and difficult not only for the one who’s dying, but for those who love and care for them.” I think about my mother or father tending for the other, at a bedside administering tender kindnesses, knowing their spouse is dying. Then the scenario ceases to play in my head. I can’t bear to think of it. Too bittersweet, too sad, too impossible to fathom.
My parents are one of those couple couples. They don’t do everything together, but, they do a lot together. Even when they’re apart they’re “together.” I don’t think they always needed each other, I think they were both self sufficient and responsible and very capable of taking care of themselves on their own, thank you very much. The reason for their marriage was that they wanted to be together. They didn't just fall in love, they also liked each other.
But as they’ve aged together, lived life together, built a life together, bought and sold homes, cars and college degrees for their kids together, raised three (at times difficult) children together, managed a couple serious health issues together, I suddenly realize: They don’t just rely on each other, at this point in their lives they do need each other. Nothing like illness to put those for better or worse marriage vows to the test.
I’m scared. I’m scared for my dad and I’m scared for my mother.
We’re being forced to think the heretofore unthinkable.
What will they do without each other?
Last Fall my dad dodged a cancer bullet. The diagnosis was a jolting blow. Early detection found the tumors. The doctors assured us the prognosis was good and the sting of the words "Dad" and "cancer" together in one sentence became less horrific. A skillful surgeon removed the offending lumps of death from him and for a day or two things seemed optimistic. Then the complications hit. Two emergency surgeries and 25 days later my dad got to go home. We had Christmas in a critical care ward. While not The Best Christmas Ever, we, our family, made it work and made the best of it. Cliché as it sounds, the best gift we received was my dad and a huge sigh of relief that he dodged cancer and made it through the complications from the surgery.
It was a long Winter. Literally and metaphorically. My parents stayed housebound through the snowy Michigan months. A nurse and physical therapist visited their home a few days a week to help my dad get back to some semblance of normal health. My parents discovered many people in their small town were eager to help them. After each snowfall (and there were a lot of them last year) their driveway was “mysteriously” plowed. Casseroles and groceries showed up a couple times a week. The local pharmacist called to tell them he heard about their situation and arranged to have his son deliver their prescriptions so my parents wouldn’t have to bundle up and go out just to get prescriptions. The teenager down the street works at a pizza place and brought my dad a pizza every now and then. His parents brought the mail and newspaper up to the door for my parents.
Small stuff, small town stuff, but big time stuff for my parents. They didn’t really need all that help, but having the little stuff of life taken care of for them made it easier for them to deal with the bigger stuff.
My dad grew stronger, my mother overcame some of her physical limitations and by mid-Spring they were feeling optimistic. Not exactly back and better than ever, but, better. They were talking about making some small trips, day trips, little jaunts to build up for the possibility of making some bigger trips.
I talked to my dad around three on Thursday in early April. He sounded more like his robust self than in recent months. He told me about his preliminary survey of the yard after the long Winter. He told me about what he had in mind for the yard this Summer. He told me about a wood project he was working on in the basement and his plans to look into a new gadget he saw that makes cutting crown moulding a breeze and how easy it would be for us to install crown moulding in my bedroom if he had that gadget. I told him he didn’t need to justify spending the money on a new gadget, that he’d beaten cancer and made it through a long Winter and he could have anything he wanted, including a new golf club he’d been coveting. He scoffed at the idea of him “earning” or “deserving” a treat for something as simple as beating cancer. So he stuck with his need to justify spending money on a new gadget. It’ll help Trillian fix up her condo so it’s a “necessary” expense. Okay Dad, whatever gets you through the night. Just buy the swutting thing and I’ll start looking at moulding. As for the new golf club, he suggested that us kids go together and call it a Father’s Day present. “I have a lot of physical therapy to conquer before I’ll be back into my swing again, I won’t need it until later this Summer anyway.”
“Okay, that’s a good idea. We’ll go to the putt course when I’m there in a few weeks. The ice cream’s on me.”
"Ice cream Sunday!" we chimed in unison.
On particularly hot Summer Sunday evenings my dad would exclaim, "Ice cream Sunday!" and we'd all dash to the car and ride to a little ice cream stand on a nearby lake. The stand is long gone, but on hot Summer Sunday evenings the call of "ice cream Sunday" can be heard echoing throughout my family.
Three hours after that phone conversation my mother rang me from their regional hospital. Two hours after I talked to my dad he started sweating profusely and couldn’t breathe. My mother didn’t mess around waiting for an ambulance. She was his ambulance. A doctor later told her that if he’d arrived three minutes later he wouldn’t have made it. She saved his life.
That was nine weeks ago.
My dad has been in and out of hospitals since then. During that time we’ve been told every diagnosis from heart attack to a kidney infection to a reaction to arthritis medication. All plausible, all possible, all explained to us in a way which “made sense” and seemed to shine new light on all that happened.
Every one of those diagnoses were right. And wrong.
Meanwhile he’s lived through seven heart failure episodes. Some severe, some “minor.” He has speech problems and dyslexia as a result of strokes.
We, my mother and I, knew there was an underlying cause they weren’t finding. Something was causing the episodes.
We also knew his neurological issues were getting worse with each episode. It wasn’t just the speech. It wasn’t just newly acquired dyslexia. He’d occasionally try to “answer” a pen thinking it was the telephone. Hey, I mean, I’ve had a few rough days where I’ve done stupid stuff. We cut him slack but stored all these incidents away, made notes to tell the therapist and doctors. Then he started attempting to write his homework assignments with a fork and told me to get him a pen that worked.
Then he had another episode. A bad one. The regional hospital could barely revive him. They told us they’d done all they dared to attempt. We had to move him to another hospital.
We were relieved. Finally. Finally we might get to the bottom of this. Finally he’d get the best of the best.
Five days later we found out all right. We got to the bottom of it.
During the surgery to save my dad from cancer, he was infected with a stealth bacteria.
How’s that for irony?
The bacteria attached itself to a heart valve yadda yadda yadda the valve has deteriorated and is leaking. Okay. Fine, give him major antibiotics and replace the valve, right?
Sure, okay, scary but not insurmountable.
Not so fast.
Those strokes? That weird behavior? The speech problems?
Pieces of the bacteria flicked off the valve and traveled to his brain. Bleeding embolisms. Making it too risky to undertake heart surgery.
So much for my hope and wish that my dad would go quietly and quickly in his sleep.
There is no justice in the end. If anyone deserves to go quickly and quietly in their sleep it's my dad.
But no.
He doesn't get out that easily. He's going to linger in pain and indignity.
The breeding of the bacteria has been stopped thanks to ultra antibiotics. But the damage is done.
The other irony is that in the long run, in the broad view, it would have been “kinder” for my mother to have waited those extra minutes for the ambulance.
It would have been kinder for the doctors to not find the bacteria. It would have been kinder to let the bacteria cells go unfound, free to multiply, spread and consume him.
But no. Now my dad is caught in a medical no man’s land. The heart surgeons deem the life saving heart surgery too risky because of the bleeding embolisms in his brain. The infectious disease team can’t do anything about the bacterial embolisms in his brain. The neurologists can only react to the new symptoms when the embolisms cause a neurological problem. He’s not sick “enough” to keep him in hospital care. He’s not well enough to go home.
So instead of installing moulding in my bedroom, instead of working on getting his golf swing back into form, instead of taking trips with my mother, my dad is spending the Summer, and most likely the rest of his life, in a nursing home waiting to die.
Could be a few weeks, could be a few months.
I don’t believe in miracles. Life and death happen. We’re organic. Sometimes cells in organic beings do things out of the ordinary. It’s not a miracle, it’s a biological blip for the better. If the biological blip doesn’t net a positive result it’s called biology, the circle of life, the end of the line, a “blessing” and “for the best.” There are more negative blips than positive ones, so relatively, the positive ones seem rare and miraculous.
I trust my dad’s doctors. I trust the hospital. I know enough about my dad’s deterioration and biology to know the blips coming his way are not the miraculous type. My dad has always reminded me to use my imagination but remember to apply logic. “Maintain balance, Trill. Be creatively logical, Trill. Don’t let your imagination get the best of you and make you silly, Trill. You can be imaginative and intelligent, Trill, don’t be stupid. Artistic and poetic vision are gifts, not excuses, Trill.”
Over and over and over and over my dad reminds me to apply logic and intelligence. My imagination and creative bents were a source of both humor and frustration for him when I was younger. He’d laugh or marvel at my drawings and stories and book reports, but lose his temper when, after hours of practice with me, I was no closer to learning my multiplication tables than when we started studying. “You’re not stupid, Trillian, so don't act stupid! You wrote a ten page report on cell division and had ‘em rolling in the aisles at the illustrations, too boot! So the only explanation for your inability to memorize simple multiplication tables is stubbornness. You’re not trying hard enough. Get your head out of the clouds and focus on this, Trillian!” Then there were the Algebra years.
Good times.
Years later when I somehow managed to land in a calculus class my dad sat back and marveled and finally took a more sympathetic tone with me about math. “You know, Trill, you don’t have to take calculus. You’ve worked hard and struggled all the way to the top of the math class heap, you're already solid in your college applications, you don’t have to go through with this. You don’t need it for college or for life. Why don’t you take another lit class instead?”
I was shocked. Absolutely shocked.
Years of him pushing and pushing and pushing me to my left brain limits, years of him telling me that life isn’t all books and painting and music. Years of him telling me that I have the curiosity and a knack required for scientific endeavors and I couldn’t let math hold me back from doing great scientific things, especially the genetic and biology things that interested me so much… His suddenly letting me off the math hook didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. It had to be a test.
I took calculus. And passed it. Barely. Apart from college accounting and probability and stat classes and a geometry class, I never took another classic math class again. I remember next to nothing about what I “learned” toiling and pushing my brain to its limit trying to learn math.
And now here we are…me with a creative career in jeopardy and him unable to tell the difference between a knife and a pen because of a bacterial infection.
Oh, the ironies.
A couple days ago, when we were still uncertain about the bacteria, heart surgery and neurological damage (I long for those halcyon days of blissful ignorance) my dad asked if he could have an ice cream bar. The nurse couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I could. I've learned my dad's new language. I'm not fluent, I don't always understand, but I can usually figure out what he's saying. “You want an ice cream bar, Dad?”
“YES!!!”
“Is it okay for him to have one?” I asked the nurse.
“Oh," she said in that 'no way' tone, "Ice cream. Probably not. We’re watching his sugar levels. Maybe another day,” was her unsympathetic response.
My dad shot me a conspiratorially snotty look which I knew meant, “Pfft. Nurses. What do they know? It’s just one ice cream bar, not a pitcher of Kool-Aid and a pan of brownies. Don’t do this, can’t have that, blah blah blah.”
After she left I told him that on Father’s Day I’d bring him an ice cream bar. I made that promise thinking a) we’d have a diagnosis and he’d be out of the woods by then, and/or b) for swut’s sake it’s only an ice cream bar for crying out loud. He reminded me, in his slurred, disjointed new speech pattern, that I promised I’d buy the ice cream when we went to the putt course, and I, har har, owed him an ice cream Sunday, anyway.
Nothing wrong with that long term memory.
We’ve learned a lot since the day the nurse denied his ice cream bar request. We learned he has a rare bacterial infection eating his heart and brain. We learned that, for now, his neurological issues are labeled aphasia and dysarthria and that these will get worse, maybe a little better, and then worse again. We’ve learned that his kidneys are reacting to the heart valve malfunction and, indeed, just a little sugar is not good for him.
We’ve learned the episodes aren’t going to stop just because the growth of the bacteria is curtailed. The antibiotics are good enough to stop them, but not strong enough to make them go away.
He had a bad episode 3 AM Father's Day Sunday. The phone rang at my parents' house at 6 AM. My mother groggily answered the phone as I ran into my parents' bedroom assuming the worst. It was a bad episode, the doctor told my mother, but he survived and could we possibly get the images from a CT scan they’d taken at the regional hospital a few weeks ago?
6 AM? Sunday? Father’s Day?
I sprang into action, started making calls, and much to my surprise I did get the images, on disk, at 9 AM on Father’s Day Sunday.
I raced my mother to the new hospital and ran the disk, at breakneck speed to the doctors. (well, I mean, breakneck for me, which, with my ankle and foot is just above breakneck speed for a turtle) The doctors eagerly took them from me, thanked me profusely and said the images may help establish the trend of embolism growth and movement. I started talking to them about trend charts and graphs and did the math required when they talked about the rate of growth v. movement and how much bleeding was taking place around the embolisms.
“Happy Father’s Day, dad,” I thought, “Math. For you.”
An hour later two of the doctors on my dad's team called my mother and I into a consultation room. The conversation was long, they spoke to us in that overly gentle tone people use when giving bad news. Failing a miracle or another surgeon finding something they missed, the synopsis, minus the math is: Save his heart, kill the brain. Or. Save his brain, let the heart deteriorate and fail.
Happy Father's Day.
My dad had a restless, uncomfortable Father’s Day. We watched some of the US Open on his standard issue hospital room television. How’s that for devotion and unconditional love? Under any other circumstance you’d have to either put a gun to my head or give me serious narcotics for me to endure watching golf on television. But, with my dad, on Father’s Day, in his “condition” in acute care in a hospital, suddenly watching golf on television was my favorite thing in the world to do. When a commercial came on advertising the golf club he suggested he’d like for Father’s Day I apologized on behalf of my siblings and I. “Sorry, Dad, we’ve all been kind of busy and pre-occupied and haven’t had a chance to get you that club,” trying to smile like I believed it, “you work on getting better, and I’ll work on getting you that club.”
I looked embarrassedly at the feeble gifts he’d received instead of that coveted golf club. A shirt and lounge pants suitable for accommodating IVs, heart monitors and leg cuffs which keep him from getting blood clots. An extra large digital clock because he gets confused trying to read and understand his dial watch and the clock on the wall in his room.
And a framed photo of him and us kids taken many years ago at the Grand Canyon. I was about a year old and he was holding me in one arm while draping his arm around my sister’s shoulder and my brother leaned into us. My dad has a casual, easy going air about him, a relaxed, happy demeanor, a Summer vacation air of fun and relaxation with the beauty of the canyon behind us. But his hands tell a different story than the casual one on our faces. I’m perched in the crook of his arm, an effortless parcel for my dad’s strong arms and shoulders, but his hand is firmly holding me. His other arm is casually draped over my sister’s back, but that hand is firmly holding my sister’s shoulder. His legs are in a stance that appears casual at first glance, but is poised and ready to spring into defense action if my brother made one step closer to the railing between us and the canyon.
Be creative but don’t be stupid. Be creatively logical. Maintain balance.
It was nearing time for me to leave my dad on Father's Day. What remains of my job beckoned. I really do not care about trying to salvage my job anymore. My dad, my parents, need me. Why try to save a job that’s most likely going to end anyway? Why? It’s not logical.
Yet. For the moment I have to pay a mortgage and bills and I have responsibilities to clients and blah blah blah. I’ve used all of my vacation days and I have to go back to work or go without pay.
So, it was nearing the time I had to leave to catch the train back to Chicago.
“Okay, Dad, I need to think about going, I’ll be back next weekend. Maybe a lot will happen this week and you’ll be feeling a lot better!” (trying to believe it, trying to sound sincerely optimistic, I suspect more for my benefit than his, maybe if I say it enough I’ll believe my own lies.)
Oh yeah. My mother doesn’t want to tell my dad about the bleakness of his situation yet. She wants every test done, all analyses made, every option exhausted before she delivers the “news” to him. He knows he’s sick, he knows he needs heart surgery, he knows there’s a rare bacteria, he knows he’s got “something funny” going on in his head, but he doesn’t know that he “can’t” have the life saving heart surgery. He thinks he needs to get stronger and healthier and take heavy duty antibiotics for a few weeks in preparation for heart surgery. My mother’s not ready tell him the medical community can’t help him. She’s not ready to let him give up hope.
I respect that. And who knows? Maybe something will blip positive.
So there I was, leaving my dad alone in a hospital room on Father’s Day. As I stood to leave he jabbed his finger in the air, a “Wait a minute!” kind of jabbing finger, and said, in nearly perfect, slur-free, garble-free normal English, “What about my ice cream bar?!”
No one had mentioned this since the nurse negated it a few days prior. I knew his sugar levels were erratic since the episode early in the morning and I knew he “shouldn’t” have an ice cream bar.
The perfectly elocuted request was like a knife to my heart. First no new golf club, now this. He had a rotten Father's Day and I'm a horrible daughter.
The tears welled in my eyes. I turned away so he wouldn’t see that I was upset.
“(expletive deleted) it. Oh yeah! I’ll go get it! Ice cream Sunday!”
I trotted down to the vending area and procured an ice cream bar. I took it back to him and watched him take delight in it.
I know it’s bad for him. I know it could cause all kinds of problems. I know, I know, I know.
But. When he handed me half of the bar uneaten and in his slurred, wonky speech pattern he said, “You know, that’s the best ice cream bar I’ve ever had. I savored every bite. I want more but I want to get better and get out of here. So take this away from me.” I knew even though medically, logically, it may have been wrong, it was right in every other way to let him have that treat.
I was going to keep the ice cream bar a secret between my dad and I. I remembered my 18th birthday. My parents, my mother included, had let me have sips of champagne and even a little wine during my adolescence. We weren't sitting around getting drunk together, but they let me have a little taste here and there. They adhere to the "demystify it and the kids won't be as eager to abuse it" school of alcohol. On my 18th birthday my parents took me to a very nice restaurant. My mother ordered a Kir Royale and gave it to me. A whole entire one just for me. Later that night, after we returned home, my mother tucked away in bed, my dad listening to an old Quincy Jones album, me waiting for Saturday Night Live, my dad came in and said, a bit too jauntily for my new-adult status taste, "You going to stay up tonight?"
I thought,sassily, "I can stay up as late as I want. I'm an official adult now." But said instead, in that annoying teenage monotone, "Yeah." (Seriously, I hate teenage me. Okay? I hate teenage me. I'm sorry I behaved the way I did for about 4 years and I've spent the rest of my life trying to right the wrongs of my behavior in those years.)
Nonplussed, my dad jauntily continued, "Great! I was just going to have a little nightcap. Care to join me?"
This was way too weird for me to process at the time. First the get out-of-calculus-free pass and now a "nightcap?"
Wait. My dad has nightcaps? Either he'd been living a secret alcohol life or he was doing this for my benefit.
Again, thinking this was some sort of test, thinking he was trying to gauge my enthusiasm to see if I was too eager, perhaps thinking I was already well informed about mixing drinks, again, in that annoying teenage sarcastic monotone I said, "Yeh. Sure Dad. Let's have a 'nightcap.'" I think I may have even used annoying sarcastic air quotes. I know, okay, I know. I was a horrible, horrible teenager. Okay? I know.
He went back into the living room, flipped the album to the other side, and returned with a bottle of scotch and a bottle of vodka. "Pick your poison!" he said merrily.
"Da-ad, gross!" which came out more in a 13-year-old kid voice than that of my newly acquired adult status.
He poured a vodka and grapefruit juice and handed it to me then poured himself a small scotch over ice. I sat there bewildered but tried to cover it with an air of adult indifference. As "Walking in Space" played in the background he clinked my glass and said, "Happy birthday, young lady. Cheers."
I didn't know what to do. To drink or not to drink? This had to be a test. So I just sat there trying to act indifferent and annoyed.
"Ohfercryingoutloud, Trill, take a taste, if you don't like it, don't drink it. It's your 18th birthday. There's barely enough vodka in there to make a mouse hiccough. Live a little." And then he gave me a conspiratorial wink, "but I don't see any reason to bring your mother into the loop on this."
My drink of choice has been vodka ever since.
On my way out of the hospital I passed his nurse's station. I walked by and gave a nod of good-bye. I knew I should have told her about the ice cream. If his blood sugar is elevated even higher she may think something bad is happening. But all I could think about was my 18th birthday. I knew he thought there was no reason to bring the nurse into the loop on this. And I wanted that to be true. But as I reached the elevator logic took over and I turned back to the nurse's station. I told her about the ice cream. She gave me a dirty look.
"It's Father's Day," I emplored, "he only ate half of it.".
She said nothing but wrote something on a post-it note and stuck it on his chart.
I felt like I betrayed my dad on a couple levels. I gave him something he shouldn't have had and then I ratted him out to the nurse.
I called my mother after I got settled on the train. I told her to try to go to bed early and get some rest. Just before she hung up and said, "Wait. Mum?"
"Mmm hmm?"
"Do you remember my 18th birthday?"
"Uhhh, yes, we went to dinner."
"Did Dad ever mention anything else?"
"Like what, dear?"
"I dunno, just, anything?"
"Not that I recall, why?"
"No reason. I was just thinking about it. No big deal."
Long uncostumary pause.
"Is this about the car? Did he tell you about the car? He wanted to get you a new car. I wouldn't allow it. I didn't want the expense and I didn't want to spoil you."
Long weird pause.
"Dad wanted to buy me a new car for my 18th birthday?"
"Yes. I had to be the bad guy in that one."
"Mum, I should not have had a new car for my 18th birthday. You were right. You were not the bad guy."
"Now I wish I would have let him get it for you. It would have made him happy. He was so proud of you. He wanted to give you something big and important."
