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December 24, 2009
December 22, 2009
December 20, 2009
The Smile
1996 St. Petersburg
He couldn't talk when I saw him. He smiled though. His face lit up as big as day.
Every so often he would reach over and grab my arm and speak to me in a rapid voice. It was as if he was trying to tell me something of the utmost importance. But he was incapable of speech and all I heard was: "Thr mi dush arn efas dechs."
"What?" I kept asking. But all I got was the same thing and I would wipe his eyes because he was crying.
My mom said that he didn't understand and that he was incoherent.
Not that incoherent, I thought. The man recognized me. He knows who I am.
Again with the Kleenex. This time to his nose. He blew and I had to get another one.
It's all real vague still. I look back and kick myself for not staying longer by his side.
I should have spent my nights in the hospital. I should have held his hands during the day.
But I went with my mother to the wharf or a ballgame; whatever the agenda was that day.
You see ... we had not seen each other in 12 years.
I had walked out on my parents when I was 11 years old. Almost 12 years later I returned. For 6 months I stayed with them and lived their lives. And then I walked out on them again. And almost 12 years later here I was again, holding my father’s hand. He wouldn't let go. Every time I got up to leave the room he would try to upright himself and ramble faster than speech is meant to go. "Dnt Goa."
He understands.
"I'm coming right back," I'd tell him. In the hall I'd cover my face and sob. This went on every day that I was there.
Every time I'd enter the room I would say it, "Hello, Dad." My smile somewhat broken. Up close you could probably see right through it. Hairline cracks ready to shatter. Me thinking: Keep smiling dad or I'm going to break.
I do remember his smile. The day I shaved his face for him he kept running his hands across it. Beaming. Happy.
There was laughter there. I smiled just as hard and still tears rolled down my cheek. We must have looked like two nerdy twins.
The night I left his room after saying goodbye was the hardest. He cried and bounced and spoke that rapid language.
"Is he going to be all right?" I asked my mom.
I think she said, "Yes."
But the real answer was no.
I've never told anyone this. There was never a reason. My father died from brain cancer and other complications.
After spending a whole life apart from each other, we reunited for one week to say goodbye. The one thing I will never forget over that week before I had to return home, was how he would smile.
Today I miss you, Dad.
He couldn't talk when I saw him. He smiled though. His face lit up as big as day.
Every so often he would reach over and grab my arm and speak to me in a rapid voice. It was as if he was trying to tell me something of the utmost importance. But he was incapable of speech and all I heard was: "Thr mi dush arn efas dechs."
"What?" I kept asking. But all I got was the same thing and I would wipe his eyes because he was crying.
My mom said that he didn't understand and that he was incoherent.
Not that incoherent, I thought. The man recognized me. He knows who I am.
Again with the Kleenex. This time to his nose. He blew and I had to get another one.
It's all real vague still. I look back and kick myself for not staying longer by his side.
I should have spent my nights in the hospital. I should have held his hands during the day.
But I went with my mother to the wharf or a ballgame; whatever the agenda was that day.
You see ... we had not seen each other in 12 years.
I had walked out on my parents when I was 11 years old. Almost 12 years later I returned. For 6 months I stayed with them and lived their lives. And then I walked out on them again. And almost 12 years later here I was again, holding my father’s hand. He wouldn't let go. Every time I got up to leave the room he would try to upright himself and ramble faster than speech is meant to go. "Dnt Goa."
He understands.
"I'm coming right back," I'd tell him. In the hall I'd cover my face and sob. This went on every day that I was there.
Every time I'd enter the room I would say it, "Hello, Dad." My smile somewhat broken. Up close you could probably see right through it. Hairline cracks ready to shatter. Me thinking: Keep smiling dad or I'm going to break.
I do remember his smile. The day I shaved his face for him he kept running his hands across it. Beaming. Happy.
There was laughter there. I smiled just as hard and still tears rolled down my cheek. We must have looked like two nerdy twins.
The night I left his room after saying goodbye was the hardest. He cried and bounced and spoke that rapid language.
"Is he going to be all right?" I asked my mom.
I think she said, "Yes."
But the real answer was no.
I've never told anyone this. There was never a reason. My father died from brain cancer and other complications.
After spending a whole life apart from each other, we reunited for one week to say goodbye. The one thing I will never forget over that week before I had to return home, was how he would smile.
Today I miss you, Dad.
December 17, 2009
I'm thinking about it...
Lately I have been feeling kind of removed. And moved. So many things seem to be happening these days that it is hard for me to get a grasp on them. I am almost like a whirlwind of polarity. Happy Sad. Scared Brave. Awake Asleep. You get the picture.
The one thing that I do know is that I am having trouble writing these days. I find myself writing 10 or 20 posts and when my desktop gets full I delete them.
"Well quit deleting them; there's your problem!" you're probably saying.
And you could be right...maybe. But I think it's more than that. I think I'm starting to lose my train of thought. No really.
I've written three post for a Part 2 of a Spoon Full of Sugar and nothing is working. I've written about the Large Hadron Collider and Admiral Richard Byrd's obsession with The Hollow Earth. I've written about The Traitorous Eight and Shockley Semiconductor Laboratory. And I've written 3 posts called Crap, More Crap and Pieces of Crap. It seems like one of these should have worked.
"Quit deleting them!"
I am almost thinking about one of those twenty-things post. Almost.
December 1, 2009
A Spoon Full of Sugar...
A year ago the girls made a deal with their mom. They would both quit drinking soda pop for a year if they were each paid a $100 dollars. I'm not sure how this even came about. Maybe it was a New Year's resolution gone bad and somehow mom was conned out of money? I'm guessing it went something like this:
Daughter 1. "My New Year's resolution is to quit drinking pop for a year."
Lois. "You won't do that."
Daughter 1. "I'll bet you a hundred dollars right now!"
Daughter 2. "Oh, me too, me too!"
Whatever happened, a deal was made and it looks like the girls will be receiving some money come New Year's Eve.
It has really been nice, though. We have probably saved ourselves a lot of money between buying pop and dentist appointments. And I am pretty sure we've made fewer dental appointments for them in the past year.
The other day while Lois and I were driving into work, Lois told me that Aly asked her if she could get her money early. She said Aly wanted to use it to buy Christmas presents. This made me smile. Aly has always had a good heart and she is always thinking of others. Whenever she does something like this it always melts my heart.
At Christmas time she is always the first to run up to the Salvation Army's Santa Claus to drop change into the bucket. In the summer she will ask if we can give the guy on the corner a buck or two. The other day while walking through the grocery store Aly asked if she could buy a couple cases of food to donate to her food drive at school.
I have always admired this trait of hers and I am moved by it each time she does it.
As we drove into work on that one morning Lois went on to say: "Do you know what your other daughter is going to buy?"
"What?" I asked.
"I don't know, probably Hot Cheetos and clothes. But I'm pretty sure she'll spend it on herself." Lois said.
And we both laughed because Lois is right. And I love her just as much but for different reasons.
Daughter 1. "I'll bet you a hundred dollars right now!"
Daughter 2. "Oh, me too, me too!"
Whatever happened, a deal was made and it looks like the girls will be receiving some money come New Year's Eve.
It has really been nice, though. We have probably saved ourselves a lot of money between buying pop and dentist appointments. And I am pretty sure we've made fewer dental appointments for them in the past year.
The other day while Lois and I were driving into work, Lois told me that Aly asked her if she could get her money early. She said Aly wanted to use it to buy Christmas presents. This made me smile. Aly has always had a good heart and she is always thinking of others. Whenever she does something like this it always melts my heart.
At Christmas time she is always the first to run up to the Salvation Army's Santa Claus to drop change into the bucket. In the summer she will ask if we can give the guy on the corner a buck or two. The other day while walking through the grocery store Aly asked if she could buy a couple cases of food to donate to her food drive at school.
I have always admired this trait of hers and I am moved by it each time she does it.
As we drove into work on that one morning Lois went on to say: "Do you know what your other daughter is going to buy?"
"What?" I asked.
"I don't know, probably Hot Cheetos and clothes. But I'm pretty sure she'll spend it on herself." Lois said.
And we both laughed because Lois is right. And I love her just as much but for different reasons.
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