The Gift

April 26th, 2009

April 26, 2009 — The night before Dad went into surgery, I had a chance to talk with him. Just the two of us in his hospital room. We talked about random things. I was careful to stick to the generic and inconsequential. Heavy conversations made Dad squirm and I wanted to keep him in good spirits.

I’d emailed Dad’s hospital room number to his fraternity pledge brother, Ivan, who called that evening as well.  “Uncle Ivan” told Dad a number of funny stories about their old college mates. They hadn’t spoken in over 20 years—Dad was too embarrassed to let his Ivy League classmates see him after the drug days.  Dad had a warm, broad smile on his face by the time he hung up the phone.

Despite my efforts, though, it wasn’t long before the dreaded question arose. In a pleading voice he asked me to improve my relationship with my siblings.

A sigh of exasperation slipped out. For as far back as I can remember, the family game has been a surreal “Can You Top This?” competition in which the child who could claim the most calamitous personal disaster would win the prize for being the most lovable, and be showered with money and attention from both parents. And I kept screwing things up by refusing to play along. Hence my siblings’ longstanding declaration that I had a serious problem of acting like I’m better than everyone else.

These thoughts flashed through my mind as I tried to think of something more diplomatic than a reflexive, “Yeah, right. Whatever.”

Before I had a chance to answer, he laughed sadly, “You know, you’re a hard act to follow.”

I snapped my head around to glare at him. Unqualified praise coming out Dad’s mouth was not something I was used to hearing. Operation or no, the gloves were off.

“For chrissakes Dad! Don’t you get it? I’ve pushed this hard and worked my *ss off, for you. My personal and career successes, that’s my way of showing how grateful I am for everything you’ve done to give me a better life. All of that, everything, is for you. For all the bullsh*t you’ve put up with.”

He started crying. I started crying and laughing at the same time, “Look, I’m sorry if they don’t like who I am, but that’s not my problem. I’ll try to get along with them better. Remember, it takes three to make it work, not just me. And you know d*mn well I’m doing all the work in that department. You know that and I know that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s just, . . .I just want you guys to get along, OK?” The end of the question was practically a whimper.

I rolled my eyes upwards and stuck out my tongue like I was trying on a hangman’s necktie. Just then his primary physician, who is also my cousin Paul, walked into the room. Perfect timing.

In a flash, Dad changed into his tough-guy face and snorted, “So, how serious is this d*mn operation? Should I really risk it?”

I rolled my eyes again. Dad was a fearful guy and this was a typical response—immediately try to put the other guy on the defensive, either verbally or physically. Dad had a violent temper when threatened too far.

“Oh for heaven’s sake Dad, it’s 11pm. The poor guy comes after his rounds to visit and say ‘Hi,’ and that’s the greeting he gets?”

Without a pause, I turned towards my cousin, “Hi Paul.”

We all laughed. At that moment I realized Dad didn’t really know “how serious” tomorrow was going to be. Paul and I both knew Dad’s chances of surviving the surgery were roughly 40%. It was that serious. And while the surgery odds were lousy, without it, his chances of surviving the cancer were next to nothing.

Paul spoke with a quiet, measured delivery, “I wouldn’t have recommended this operation if I didn’t think it was the best option. Remember, we’re cutting to cure.” Perfect answer. Paul understood Dad’s self-destructive nature would hone in on any excuse to give up and quit.

“Yeah, Dad, lighten up will you? Aren’t you supposed to working on a positive attitude the night before surgery?” I growled with the same macho bluster. I can do a pretty good imitation of Dad. Then I poked him in the arm for emphasis. More laughter. A few minutes later Paul left. I gave Dad a hug and said I’d see him after surgery.

I kept my promise and visited several times, although Dad didn’t know it. He never regained consciousness after the first surgery, or the second. Three days later, Paul and I were talking on the phone when Code Blue page came. I could hear the muffled sounds of the loudspeaker and people rushing around.

“Hey Anita, um, . . .I gotta go, . . .that’s for Jack,” and Paul hung up.

For all the faults he had, and there were a ton; for all the suffering he caused, for me, for others, for himself; for all that, Dad’s last gift to his first daughter was nothing short of an 11th-hour miracle. I worked my whole d*mn life to be good. This time, I got lucky. . .Your friend in baseball.

Entry Filed under: Game of Life