Fragment: Love Ya, Dad

Monday, my dad had a doctor’s appointment. Tuesday, he turned 58 and had to work the 2 to 10 shift, afternoons, the shift he hates the most. Wednesday, he was in the hospital all day receiving a stent for the 99% blocked artery he had. They found it on Monday, and a second artery with 70% blocked, but the doctor didn’t want to implant that one yesterday because the procedure for the first one took a long time. He spent last night in the hospital, bored, stuck watching Law & Order reruns because the channels at this hospital were different than at home. He should be going home today and he’s okay, due to head back to receive another stent for the 70% blocked artery in a couple months.
I don’t know how many stents that makes for him. More than one, for sure. I think it might be four or five. Shame on me for not knowing. Stents that keep your dad alive is something you’d want to remember and isn’t some kind of family trivia like uncle’s birthdays or the names of second cousins. I’m afraid to ask because of how it would look. Being afraid of “how it would look” makes me feel more like an ass, and it should.
My mom called and updated me about what’s going on with him while she drove home from the hospital. The arteries, the stents, how the first procedure took a very long time, but dad’s doing fine. “He has his cell phone,” she said, in passing. Just sneaked it into the conversation, telling me, but not telling me, to call him and talk to him. She mentioned it twice with all the importance of a comma. She didn’t have to hint or prod or grab me by the shirt and say, “Call your goddamn father!” like I know she wanted to as I had already intending on calling him. Best intentions being what they are, of course. If I hadn’t know about the cell phone, would I have called him? She said he was fine. Would I have called him? God, I hope so.
I called. We talked quietly.
How are you?
Fine.
Good.
Call your mother?
Yeah, she called on her cell phone. Said she’s going to get some Quizno’s and fall asleep watching TV.
He laughs. Yeah, that’s about right. We’ve been at the hospital all day.
Silence.
Mom said you have to go back in a couple months?
Yeah, have to do it again. It’s what happens when you get old and didn’t take care of your body when you were younger. Drink too much. Eat too much, like I did. He sighs. It’s just what happens. Worry and resignation were in his voice.
Yeah.
Silence.
Some dumb ass got murdered up here, I say.
Really? Close to you?
No, not really. They think it’s drugs. Crack or something, I don‘t know. Happened in a bad part of town.
Could happen anywhere these days.
True.
Silence.
We both started talking at the same time here. This happens a lot when I talk with him. There are these strange echoes that happen with his cell phone, so I don’t know if I’m being rude, or just reacting to what I’m hearing. He stops, I plow ahead.
Did you see what happened in the Cardinal spring training game today?
Unh-unh.
That 19 year old pitcher they have in camp got to pitch for them today and he struck out Chris Duncan looking.
No kidding? He said with a laugh. I didn’t know that.
Yep.
Silence.
Silence.
Well, he said with that wrapping up intonation. Guess I better go.
Yeah, I haven’t worked out yet and I got to go.
All right. Talk to you later.
Talk to you later, Dad.
And that was it. Our conversations aren’t always that labored. Usually he has more to say to me to make sure I do this, or that. He’ll then repeat it five or six times in the conversation with a little variation. When in doubt, I talk about the Cardinals because I know I can get him talking to me about it and there’s not much else to talk about.
Fathers and sons, right? Fathers and fucking sons.
What bugged me the most is that I didn’t tell him that I loved him over the phone. I’m not so stoic or worried that he’ll think I’m a fruit if I tell him that. I sent him a birthday card where you record a message that plays when you open the card. In that message, I told him that I loved him and missed him and it was easy and truthful to do in the recording. Why couldn’t I say that then, when he needed to hear it most?
There is a tension between us when it comes to moments like this, when we say hello when we see each other and hug goodbye when I have to leave, both of us want to say, “I love you” and he wants to say, “I love you. Earn a billion dollars and move next door.“ Rarely can we do it, both of us seemingly needing permission from the other to say it. Mostly, we end it with “Talk to you later” or “See you soon.” There are times when I love you can actually get said. In those moments when we can, I crack first, while hugging him and I say it quick and without the pronoun, “Love you, Dad,” and he says back, “Love you, too.” We do this while firmly patting each other on the back in that manly way while hugging. You can barely hear the words.