Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly... All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise... blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Friday, October 08, 2004

My Dad is not dying.

It just so happened that we didn’t read the pieces chronologically. Much like when I’m flipping through a magazine I started near the end. In fact this could have nothing to do with it at all because I didn’t even pay attention to the days of the week next to each installment until after I had read most of them through. The point of me saying this is that I read the cancer one first. It’s a portrait of a conversation between a son and a father. The father signifies that it was a good day because he was able to eat a sandwich. My dad isn’t like that (I mean he’s not so sick that he can’t eat. He can eat.), but still.

I never want it to be that bad. No one wants it to be that bad. I never really allow myself to think about it though, because if I were I don’t think that I would be able to function in a normal way. I could be fooling myself right now into thinking I still am functioning in a normal way. In this way I think the repression is working for me, not against me in that way I learned was not a good way to deal with your emotions when I was a child. You have to repress a certain amount I believe. Although this leaves me with those moments when I’m least expecting it and I’m left crippled and feeling insane, my body rocking with sobs and my friends holding me together. (The first time this happened was in the movie theatre. I was embarrassed because no one else there seemed to be reacting quite the same way to the end of Big Fish. Thankfully when I called my brother he had just seen it as well and been in the same boat as me.) They’re doing their best to hold me together at these moments. These are the times when you can actually see me unraveling because the threads are coming loose more at a time than usual. I’m certain that it is happening all the time when I’m not allowing myself to notice. Or it is in such tiny bits that a simple thread might be falling and no one can even notice when it is happening.

I stayed and stared at the piece and I wanted to say something. I wanted to grab him, bring him over to where it was hanging there on the wall and bark, “ Do you know? Do you really have any idea?” Because for me this is how the conversation usually goes ---

-Hi Dad.

-Hello my daughter. How are things?

-Fine, just got back from the weekend up north. The colors are changing. It was good to get away. We made these meals that lasted for hours – the cooking and the brilliant conversation. Not a moment felt like it was wasted whether we were sitting around reading or climbing waterfalls. We didn’t look at the clock until it was time to leave. How are you doing?

-This is the worst that I’ve felt yet.

I pause. I don’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say? I’m sorry just doesn’t cut it anymore.

-You want me to be honest right?

He says this with such sympathy in his voice that I can’t believe that I’m having the hard time with this, when he is the one living through it.

-Of course…

-Went up to Fargo today for another treatment. She really burned me – had the setting up too high. I just itch. I never feel good in the evening anymore.

We pause again.

-I’m just glad. They told me that it wasn’t hereditary. You kids have nothing to worry about. I’d feel so awful on top of it all if it was hereditary.

Later we talk about books. What books I’m reading for the book clubs and the ones that I’m reading on the sly. He gives his suggestions on what I should be reading. He’s not reading as much lately because the cancer is now located right around his eyes (its been chased away from everywhere else on his body, but his head). It comes up through the skin and creates sores that not only are putting pressure on his eyes, but weep some too. His eyes are now being affected so it’s hard to focus on the words in a book. Before it was bad enough when his hands couldn’t be held steady enough to work on his stained glass projects anymore. That was even before he was diagnosed. That was just from the shear uncomfort he was in due to the eczema. He makes candles now. They’re great candles. If you have any leftover wax give it to me. My dad will make you a beautiful candle. He needs some sort of outlet.

I don’t know how to help him.

1 Comments:

Blogger Maria said...

I love you SO MUCH.

3:46 PM

 

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