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!”
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