In all the excitement of coming home from South America, I completely forgot the anniversary of my father's death nine years ago. And, of course, I didn't have my brother to remind me. He's gone too. Was there anyone that day that thought of my dad? I'm the only left who remembers how good he was, how strong and how completely dependable to every member of his family.
My dad...Old faithful, rock of gilbratar, steady eddie, lean on me, solid citizen, silent but deep. Handsome with thick black hair, a roman nose, elegant hands, long toes with ugly twisted toenails, hairy legs, except where his socks came up, pimples on his back and a pointed ear that he would wiggle for our amusement. Short sleeved dress shirts in the summer with pens in the pocket. White bucks or saddle shoes, sometimes. Bow ties that he proudly tied himself.
Down in his office, cabinets filled with needles, large and small. His desk a mess of papers, pills, prescription pads. Books and periodicals jumbled on the shelves behind and on the window sill a small statue of a boy peeing, probably a gift from a drug salesman. The back room, never open, never lit, is empty except for a large dark machine. Front room is the waiting room. The only window blocked by an air conditioner, the door open to the street in good weather. My father standing outside waiting for patients. A framed reproduction of Van Gogh’s sunflowers on the wall.
He’s always home, my dad. During Office Hours, down the steps seeing patients. After Office Hours, upstairs on the sofa or at the table for dinner. He picked me up at school for lunch during the week.
He was the bravest man I knew. For six months, he watched my mom slip away to death knowing in his heart the inevitable ending but doing all he could to protect her from that knowledge. At the end, he sat with her all day long in the hospital, a faithful soldier not saying anything but always there. She was grateful for his presence and I will never forget his constancy.
He couldn’t protect himself as with excruciating but inexorable slowness he lost his independence, his capabilities, his mobility. He was angry; he was sad; but, most of all, he was ashamed that this was happening to him. By the end, he was numb, beaten down by the decline of his body, the deadening of his mind, the loss of words.
I often wondered how he could go on, keep breathing, keep eating, get out of bed. Finally, he stopped.
I miss him.
