Inspirational People: A Story About My Father
Oct 5th, 2007 by April
My sister calls my father “the Miracle Man.” She says this because he survived the attack on the World Trade Center in 2001, and he also survived being run down by a speeding car as he was crossing the street three years ago. It is his survival instinct and his ability to overcome, I suppose, that afforded him such a venerable nickname.
Meanwhile, I, as the oldest and most philosophical of the family, cannot see it in such a way. I cannot smile to myself and say, proudly, “My father is a survivor.” I am much more likely to cry and raise my fists in anger, wondering why he is quadriplegic, residing in a nursing home, unable to brush his own teeth or change the channel of the small, fuzzy t.v. in his room, his only portal to the outside world.
My father was once quite the formidable figure. Always tall, always commanding, yet loving and kind. Always trying to hug us when we pulled away because teenagers hate to hug their parents. Always saying, “Got enough money?” when we were on our way out, and pulling a twenty out of his wallet despite our answering, “Yes.” “Just in case,” he would say.
My father had all girls - five of them - but he never complained about not having a son. He played softball with us, helping us practice in the street in front of our Brooklyn apartment and then showing up to every single game.
I decided to write a book about my father, and several months ago, I toted my laptop to his room at the nursing home and began asking him questions about his life. I thought that as a writer, it would be cathartic for me, a healing process. It would also give him something to do besides watch t.v. It would make him feel important, validate him, and at the same time, give me a reason for being there. I usually just went and stood around nervously, looking at the family photos on his wall and his disfigured, stiff, dead limbs and trying not to cry. The project seemed perfect for the both of us.
It didn’t work out as well as I had planned. While my father has retained all of his wits and memory, no small feat for a man whose head was broken open after crashing into a windshield, the myriad medications he must take each day make him a little cloudy. On this day, I asked him what his life was like as a child, and he just looked at me and said, “I don’t remember.” Soon after I decided to abandon the project.
Now I feel like taking it up again. I can always steel myself for the good of the overall picture, and check facts with my mother and with grandparents. Accuracy is not the end-all of everything, but an emotional connection, a healing process, a father-daughter moment in time… that is something important.
The gift of time.
There have been few people in my life who have remained close to my heart through the years. One such person was my mother’s father, Pa.
Pa and I shared a very special bond; the loss of a child. In 2000 I lost my first born child to SIDS and in 2001, he lost his eldest daughter, my mother. That bond created by events in our lives left a lasting impression in my life.
I began moving on with my life, which also allowed the opportunity to live in various cities in the Western US. When the opportunity would arise for my visits home, one of the first people I would see was Pa.
Our conversations weren’t often deep. We would discuss his health, the weather, current events and my life. He was always willing to listen to what I had to say and offered much knowledge on life from the perspective of an individual who served in WWII, lived through the great depression and maintained one love in his life - no matter how many times they married and divorced through the years.
I had the opportunity a few years back to move back to my home-town, briefly. I took the option and decided I would cherish each moment. I arrived the day before having to start my first shift in that restaurant.
Prior to heading into work, I made a special stop at the nursing home where Pa resided. I found him in his electric wheel chair in the cafeteria/activity room. His sight had deteriorated greatly since the last time that I saw him, but he recognized my voice and my face as I moved closer. His eyes lit up in a way I never could have imagined.
I sat and began speaking with him about why I was there and happenings in my life. He took my hand as I was preparing to leave for work that day and with tears in his eyes thanked me for stopping by. I had never seen the man shed a tear in my life. I asked what was wrong and he began speaking about his family never visiting and believing that he was a forgotten soul.
It was about that time I began crying. This man whom I’ve loved so deeply throughout my life felt as though he meant nothing. I made a point to stop by as often as time allowed during those months. It didn’t take much time before his fall occurred, leading to his final deterioration.
My grandfather passed February 21, 2006. I finished my time in Evanston a few weeks later.
You don’t have to have a reason to go and spend time with your father. Give him - and yourself - the gift of time.