cacophony

I guess it’s an indication that I’m growing up, or have grown up, but when the phone rings at 11:30 pm, it gives me that tingling feeling on the back of my neck, makes my shoulders scrunch up and my mouth go dry, and my stomach feels like it does when I’m on a really quick elevator. As it happens, I was on the phone last night when the other line beeped at 11:30.

“Oh shit. Hold on a sec; that’s my sister little; this is BAD.”

“We’re at the ER. He’s got a fever of 102° and he can’t breathe for shit.”

Funny that; now I can’t either.

. . .

Nine days ago a surgeon split my father’s sternum in half and did all kinds of nasty things to his heart. It’s supposed to make him better. He had his aortic valve replaced, had a bypass done, and had a procedure done that is supposed to fix his afib problem — which involved the surgeon essentially making lots of gashes in his heart tissue. He was recovering well and got to go home exactly a week after the surgery, on Monday.

But last night he ended up in the ER with a fever and short of breath. Now he has been readmitted to the hospital with pneumonia.

This is not supposed to happen to my Daddy. And it’s completely selfish of me to feel this way; I’m angry. Angry that my rock, the larger-than-life solid presence that has been there, unflinchingly, all through my life, is flinching. It makes me crazy with grief, and fear, but also with anger, and that makes me feel ashamed.

. . .

I was probably eight. We were at the beach house in Pensacola. The sky was the most vibrant blue, like a watercolor painting, stringy pitiful white clouds moving chasing each other around on the horizon. The wind was the kind that puts some stiffness in your back, makes you set your shoulders. I didn’t want to go in the water because it looked angry, churning and swirling around like it was just waiting to have a chance to destroy something. There were a few brave surfer souls out on the water, and I watched them fall, get knocked down, get dragged under, over and over again and I didn’t want to go in the water.

Daddy said “Yes. You’re going,” and he picked me up and carried me out into it, while I kicked and both tried to get away and clung to him at the same time. When he got far enough out that he was hip deep, he peeled my arms from around his shoulders and dropped me into the water, holding my hand so tightly that I was afraid I was going to start hearing bones pop. I don’t remember the exact words he said. He told me to feel the water, feel what it could do to me if I didn’t respect it. He told me that I shouldn’t be afraid of the water, but that I should remember that it could be very scary and I should respect how powerful it is.

I couldn’t keep my feet. I was knocked around like a rag doll, my only anchor Daddy’s arm, and I clung to it. He kept my face out of the water, but didn’t help me stand — he let me feel the water pounding me, tossing me, pulling me every which way. And he stood, immobile, feet planted and acting quite literally like my rock. He wanted me to learn about the water that day. And, in an abstract kind of way, I did. But I learned something much more important that day, something I already knew but that became sharply focused in my mind and has never gotten fuzzy again, even after all these years. I learned that Daddy is my rock, my safe place. Daddy is all powerful, protective, strong and wise.

This is one of the most powerful memories I have.

Over the two decades between then and now, I have learned some new things. I have learned that Daddy is as fragile as the rest of us, and that sometimes he can’t be that strong and I need to be the strong one. I have learned that he won’t always be able to keep me safe and that sometimes he is wrong. Even knowing those things already, though, seeing him lying in that hospital bed enrages me. I want to throw a temper tantrum, kick my feet and scream and cry and close my eyes and plug my ears — maybe, maybe, if I don’t acknowledge it it won’t be true. Maybe if I throw a big enough fit then Daddy will fix it, make it better, put it back the way it’s supposed to be.

But it doesn’t work like that. It is what it is, and we can’t make it any different. So in the end, I sit by his bed and I hold his hand and tell him I love him, and we move back toward normality one teeny tiny step at a time, and just try to have faith that we’ll get there.