Stroke Scare6/17/15What do you do when there's nothing you can do? (The details: my dad woke up a little groggier than usual. By noon he was clearly not returning to normal so he had my mom pick him up from work and take him to the hospital. We still don't know what happened, but he is back to living the life of a normal seventy-something. But I didn't know any of that this afternoon.) My mom called, but I was in a meeting, so I didn't answer. She left a voicemail but I didn't check it. Finally she sent me a text to say that my dad might be having a stroke and I should call her. As I got up I said that my dad might be having a stroke and I ran out of the meeting. I had my mom on the phone before I got to the car. She told me her plan and I said I would meet her at the hospital. I tried to drive like a sane person. I parked the car and ran to the emergency room. I saw my dad sitting in a wheelchair on the other side of the glass. A young couple was exiting the patient processing area. I rushed past the receptionist and slipped through the open door. I put my hand on his back and came around the front of him. My mom was in a chair next to my dad and I could tell immediately they they were relaxed. Everything seemed fine. So much hit me right then. All of the fear I was holding back. The not knowing. The feeling of helplessness. But mostly an enormous wave of relief. Relief that he was still here. That he knew me. That I recognized him. I wrapped my arms around him and cried on his shoulder. I'm not ready for this. I don't know how to get ready for it. I'm planning my wedding. We're building this schoolhouse FOR my dad. For all of us. I still live this stressed out life with too much to do and not enough time for people. I know it and I don't know how to change it. I just keep working harder, trying to get done. If I can just check enough things off of the list I'll have time to work on a Father's Day present. So here it is, dad. I guess this is one of those letter writing holidays. But what do I say to my dad? The circle with the cross. The game you made up for Anna and me on the bank of the Mississippi. Just some random walk. A rare day with dad. I'll never forget it. I learned so much that day. I learned that my dad knew how to play. I learned that he was creative. I learned to see things that weren't there. That "game board" was like magic. Just lines in the sand. But it was a complete fantasy world to me. We wanted to be like our dad, so we drew our own paths like Harold and his purple crayon. Shortcuts to make the game more fun. I learned that sometimes simple is better. Eventually there were so many shortcuts, so many lines, that the game fell apart. But you let us destroy your creation with our enthusiasm. I learned to be patient, patient with other people's ideas and their passion, and patient with youth. I watch you and mom argue over whose turn it is to put Zola to bed, "You got to last night," "But she asked for me." I remember you and mom switching sides of the bed to see if we would crawl in next to you when we got scared at night. And I remember your arms around me as you carried me back to my own bed. You're a grumpy old man, dad. You're frank and to-the-point even when it might be better to use tact. You hurt people sometimes and I'm not sure you know it. But I know you love me. I know it all the time. I get frustrated with you. I've probably spent more of my life frustrated by you than not. But that's not the case any more. I think I understand. I've worked really hard to get here, but it was worth the effort. I didn't know it at the time, but of course it was all a lesson in understanding myself. It still takes a lot of work. I have to slow down, remember that you're coming from a place of sincerity. I have to really listen. Remember my biases. I do listen. You are heard. I'm paying attention. I notice. And I'm holding on to the best pieces. And they really are the best pieces. That day on the beach is one of my favorite memories. I hope to share it with my own kids one day. I'm scared they won't enjoy it as much as me and Anna. I'm a work in progress, dad, but I'm proud to be your son. I love you, dad. |
NEXT POST: Coming soon |
Frozen fog. 12/12/14
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