The Talk

One of childhood’s least favorite chores is enduring uncomfortable conversations with parents. Fewer conversations are more awkward than that talk about sex—for both sides. I remember my talk. My dad brought out the birds and bees by fingering flowerbed diagrams while we weeded. His deadpan narration tied biology with a slideshow of horror.

Surprise! It’s not just nail-grit that’s going to make you uncomfortable today!

The horrible thing  I didn’t realize then was that this conversation comes back around full circle. It’s right there on page 46 of Dad’s heart surgery recovery book.

“So, Dad, when you and Mom—“ Nope, can’t do it.

Luckily that’s not a conversation I have to have today; Dad barely has the energy to raise his chair. That’s okay, there are plenty of uncomfortable conversations I’ll need to have with both of my parents. Like this gem today:

“Mom, what if the next emergency is worse, or—God forbid—what if you both are hurt. How do we handle your finances, so you don’t have to worry?”

No, I don’t want this talk any more than I wanted Dad to draw dirt vaginas, but here I am. And thank God I get this chance. Serious as a heart attack: what if the surgery had gone wrong, or we hadn’t had the blessing of surgery at all? Would Mom be able to wallow through the day to day of bills and payments? Isn’t that what family is for? To help? But how can I help if I don’t know what to do with what I have?

So I sat with Mom and Dad and asked the hard questions about where things went and what happened next. In my case, I was pleasantly surprised. My parents had all the answers; systems were in place so I could step in, should I need to. That isn’t always the case. I have one friend whose parents left him in the weeds. None of us want to grieve, but questions and surprises only make things harder than the talk we should have had when there’s time.

Thank you, God, for giving us the opportunity to have the talk. Now, next week I’ll fly home to my Queen. My dad is doing better than I could hope. I can trust that he will be fine in Mom’s capable hands. And maybe I can skip that sex talk all together.

Nothing but the Dead of Night back in my Little Town

The last time I was a five-year-old boy, I was five. Since then, I’ve considered myself a forty-plus-year-old man with decades of experience backing a rugged persona. I’m a rock, a man, an island. At least until today.

It started forty-plus years ago on a sunny Arizona afternoon, with a man, a yard and a plot of weeds. I have always hated weeding, but what I remember most about being a kid was kneeling in the soil with my dad. He’d show me how to pull the root while teaching me about life. Don’t tell him, but I was only pretending to listen—to keep from yanking up too many dandelions. Still, somehow those down in the dirt discussions, they stuck.

Like this morning, when I arrive at his hospital bed and he was getting run down a checklist by a horde of anesthesiologists and nurses. “Hi, Dad.” I grinned and reached out with a firm handshake—just like he taught me.

Mom and my sister are there too. I make sure he knows I’m looking out for them. I’ve already talked things over with my Pirate Queen back home: I’m here as long as he needs. “Relax, Dad. I’ve got this.” Because this is all about him, not me. Everyone who walks down the hall is all smiles with something positive to say; He is the man of the hour; it’s not everyday you get a triple bypass and even his prodigal son has returned to see that. It’s what Dad would have done.

“Let me look, did they already shave you?” No, that’s not me, it’s the head nurse.
It doesn’t stop me from quipping “Let’s get a pic for Facebook,” though. Dad would have said  that too, if he weren’t the one in the bed. Well, he wouldn’t have used the word “Facebook.” He’d have said something archaic like, “for posterity.” That’s my dad. He’s like Zeus. He’s immortal and he was here when really old words were invented.

“I think we should call this a rock.” Yeah, he’d think that was funny.

The surgeon ushers us out and we laugh our goodbyes. A nurse tells us this is going to be a six hour operation, so we go have breakfast. Who wants to sit around the waiting room with a bunch of worrying people? That’s depressing. My mom doesn’t need that. She hides it well, but she’s worried sick. So’s my sister. The only reason I recognize this is because I know them well, almost as well as I know my dad.

Over plates of eggs and pancakes we laugh over how Dad is missing out on his favorite foods. “I’ll bet he’d much rather be here!” We laugh. We recant tales of silly Dad pranks, and how he worries over the stupidest things. For my part, I keep the conversation light as I order more coffee and check my watch. I’ll check it again in another five minutes. Why is it moving so slow?

“You sure you want more coffee?”
“Fill ‘er up! Hahaha.”

While mom goes to the bathroom my sister says, “His heart stopped for six-seconds yesterday, Don’t tell mom I told you.”

Well that’s not light and funny. “Thanks for letting me know.” I smile. This is what we do. My job is to hold everything together. Hers is to be empathetic.
After breakfast we return to the hospital and several slow laps of the minute hand sweeping the clock on the wall later, a nurse arrives. “Everything went well, would you like to see him?”
“Yes!” we’re all on our feet.
“It actually turned into a quadruple bypass, so he’s going to be a little groggy, try to let him wake up slowly.”

“Oh good. At least we caught it now.” That’s me, always the optimist.

Mom’s in the room first; my sister’s right behind her. I usher up the rear. The room  is huge! At it’s center is a pale old man, partially covered by a sheet. On his exposed chest, from breast to belly, runs a strap of surgical tape. It barely adheres, like, it too, is appalled by the gash it hides. There are hoses and wires and needles and tape. A myriad of inputs and outputs tethered to an orchestra of surrounding monitor instruments, ready to sound at the slightest discord.

At first I’m confused. Where’s my dad? Then I get it. The frail man, in the bed, that’s him. This is not the immortal Zeus! At that realization, I’m five again. Outside the view of my mom and sister I almost lose it, but choke it down. Those days, knee deep in garden loam, my dad never taught me about this. All I can think is, “You broke my daddy!”

Return to Sender

My bus weaves through the Arizona dark unknown. Muzak "Sounds of Silence," is my soundtrack. Where I go, where I've been, both invisible, but both I know; I've done this trip before, ages ago--going the other way. Back when I was hurtling from, not sloughing toward.

What's changed? Well, I'm older and somewhat educated in the facts and acts of life and mortality. And I got the call from my mom.

 "It's your father...."

Thirty years ago, almost to the day, my dad sat across a diner table from me. "I think you have something you need to ask me."
"I do?" I'm concentrating on making my coffee the color of California sand. I don't need to ask him about that. I still hadn't acquired a taste for bitter black--the way I take it now. In this memory I'm almost 18, young on experience. That's why, even though I know, I don't ask Dad the question he needs to hear. "I dunno what you mean?" Slurp.
Dad gives me a glare that says, liar while also accusing me of being smarter. We've grown up perfecting our wordless language. It's no small part of why I've outgrown this town. I'm moving.
I tap another sugar packet in my coffee.
"How are you getting to the airport?"
There it is. "I'm going to have a friend give me a ride."
"Which one?"
Whichever ride they want to give me. I know better than to say that. "I dunno yet." But I don't need you second guessing my every decision. I'm an adult. I can do this myself.
You're not capable. "I'll drive you." End of story.
"Ok." But when I'm gone, I'll make my own decisions. "Thank you, very much."
You're welcome.

And on that day of liberation, my dad drove me to the airport. My grandmother rode with us. Not for me, but because of a lesson taught to her by experience. Something the language between my father and I couldn't express. My dad lacked the words and I was still too young understand: after 18 years, mine wasn't the only life changing that day. All that interpreted gruff disappointment? That was my dad saying he would miss me and he was proud. I'd gotten our shorthand all wrong. He needed to drive me. He didn't want to say goodbye, but knew it was time.

Thirty years later I've learned this lesson for myself and I'm riding a bus back home, praying it isn't the same message I need share with him right now.

 "It's your father."

Yesterday my mom called. Dad's in the hospital because a routine blood test showed something requiring another doctor to stab a scope from Dad's groin to Dad's heart. That doctor saw something that has the vital protector of my youth fast-track strapped in a rolling bed and scheduled for triple bypass.

After a three-hour Google-fest of surgery research, it takes less than three minutes to hop on Google Flights and grab tickets. Now I'm on a bus home from Sky Harbor Airport. I understand the statistics; ninety-five percent of open heart surgeries are successful, but these "experts" are cracking out the sternum of the man who made me. They want to stop the heart that taught me it's okay to love, so they can sew in veins from my dad's legs. All while a machine shaped like a dorm refrigerator pumps his life's blood.

 Then there's the other five percent....

I told Mom I'm on my way. I said when dad pulls through, I'll help her with his rehabilitation. What I don't tell her is that, like Dad, I have a need to not feel left out, but most of all--God, please no--I need to stop him from leaving without me saying goodbye.