Tuesday, November 30, 2010

A Song for My Dad


As we head full on into the holiday season, I wanted to add this story that came to me yesterday after spending the day with my family on Sunday at a tree farm cutting down our Christmas tree. Thank you for indulging me on this one. Happy holidays to everyone!
A Song for My Dad
I saw my dad today. He was driving a tractor in a large field of Christmas trees dressed in a Santa suit. And he was smiling.

He drove by on the first pick up and said there was no room this go around but he would be back shortly. I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of that sparkle in his eyes, the one long lost to pain, stolen by a thief well known to him for 50 years. His heart was so big and so open. It was an easy target for the cruelty of an unloving partner. 

Always quiet, and contemplative, he was a guy who could draw Donald Duck in 8 seconds flat, who drew 1950’s pin up girls with the same ease and beauty as it was for me to create a fresh floral design from a few cut flowers and greens. He could play Claire de Lune by heart on piano or organ, and apparently act in plays, something that was never known to anyone until he reminisced it to me 3 days before he died.

All from a man who was 5’11”, weighed 250 lbs at his skinniest, barely finished high school, was a paper hanger, painter, and designed and built both of our houses. This was a man with hands the size of frying pans who didn’t need gloves to clean the ice and snow off of car windows, whose pranks included using manure to make a small explosive that blew the mailbox off of a neighbor’s house because Dad was miffed about something he couldn’t quite remember, a very broad shouldered brute of a guy who could lift a full grown man over his head during a party and “accidentally” drop him and break the man’s back. Which subsequently ended the party. Dad felt awful about the accident, but remained friends with the guy.

This gentle giant donned a Santa suit every Christmas for my sis and I during our toddler years. His own mother would plop into his lap each season and they both would hoot and holler with laughter for the 8MM camera, whose tiny grainy reels me and sis would watch in the darker years to come. When Grams died, Christmas ended at her house and we never saw his side of the family again. That loss took the last hope for any glimmer from his eyes and his goodness was subsequently drowned in alcohol.

This was a man who never cried, who only winced and yelled obscenities into the air after driving a 3” nail into his knee while breaking boards in half for firewood, who in his frustration with his wife and family, chose my cousin over me for his new daughter, who didn’t speak to me for 4 years for a myriad of reasons, who was cold as ice on the outside, but cried soft tears and hugged me tightly after I told him I was finally pregnant after years of infertility treatments.

Oh, he wore that red suit a few more years for my one brother, but it never made it to my youngest brother’s Christmases. Some years down the road, we got him to put it on for my young nephew. Sis and I got the job of dressing him and we laughed until we cried as we attempted to stuff him into a too small well worn suit. I saw that glimmer find its way out of the darkness that night for that short moment.

The last time I saw that glimmer, a faint sparkle, the one that I now see in my younger son’s eyes, was after I had the hospital dose him up on morphine.

 “If we give him any more, his heart might stop.”
“He’s dying, for Christ’s sake! And he’s in pain! Give it to him now!"

Me, the so called “black sheep”, the one who was with him at his diagnosis, who drove him home that day and begged him to take one more trip to Greece, the place his heart belonged to and missed, the one who researched stage 4 pancreatic cancer and was told by a trusted friend and surgeon to tell Dad to get a great bottle of bourbon and a good cigar and head to the beach to enjoy the very short time he had left.

“If you want to go, Dad, we’ll make it happen. Someone will travel with you. But you
have to go now. There isn’t time…..”;

the one who said no to the treatments, “What for? He only has a few months to live, let him be happy in his final days”;
the one who was dismissed as wanting him dead for saying no to experimental treatments that are only a playground for unrelenting oncologists.

He was silent during that initial conversation with the doctor who delivered the news. He was silent on the way home that day. He was silent during our conversation, my questions of what he was thinking, what did he want to do, did he want to go to Greece.

He did hear me that day, though, and asked the oncologist a few days later if it would be possible to travel. My heart beamed but was quickly silenced when the rest of the family said no, he was to stay and allow the doctors to concoct their chemo cocktails for him.
“We can beat this thing, Dad.” was the fear coming out of the rest of the family.
And my heart broke as I watched him relent.

So he never went to his beloved Greece again and the only beach he saw was in a painting on the wall of his hospital room those last two days. He seemed lost in that painting his last morning, as if he was already there.

We had finally gotten his pain under control the night before and as I sat with him after the others had gone for coffee, he told my husband I was crazy after I asked him how he was feeling. And the sparkle was there. I smiled and knew at that moment that we had made peace with each other, after years of struggles and heartbreaks.

So it warmed my heart when I saw him today. The gentle giant that was silenced during his lifetime, was driving an old farm tractor, smiling, eyes sparkling, dressed in a Santa suit.

1 comment:

  1. I am catching up a bit here, this entry and the few before it. I knew there was a reason we'd reconnected ... I'm overcome with grief and joy and empathy. The warmth of an ancient friendship, born that day in grade school, overwhelms me now. I've missed you and am immensely glad to be getting reacquainted. Thank you, Eden, for sharing where you've been and for sharing your strength. XO Fran

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