Father's Day

Father’s Day is a weird holiday for me. Not because of any daddy issues I have, but, I mean, being celebrated for being a father is weird. In a lot of ways, me typing this sentence out is the equivalent of what I had to do to become a father. Related: I’m not very good in the bedroom.

Maybe it will feel differently when I’m older, or when my kids are older, ehhh…I don’t know. This is going to make me sound like I’m holier-than-thou or something (so EAT IT, thou), but I feel weird being celebrated, however minimally, for doing something that I wholeheartedly want to do.

***

I’ve only ever wanted to be two things: a professional baseball player, and a dad. I mean, I’ve wanted other stuff too - a place to live, to be happy, a hot wife (check/check/CHECK, BABE) – but when anyone ever asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, those have been my answers since I was four. Even now, if someone offered me $50 a day to play for the Toledo Mud Hens, I would probably say yes. 

(PS if anyone representing the Toledo Mud Hens is reading this, I don’t why you’d want anyone who hasn’t played competitive baseball since he was 17, and not coincidentally was not actually good at any facet of baseball other than eating sunflower seeds, but YES I’LL SIGN YOUR CONTRACT. I assume you must have heard about the time I threw an 82-mile per hour fastball one time when I was 17 and then had to ice my arm for a month.)

Obviously, since I’m writing this and not playing long toss with Ronny Paulino, the baseball career didn’t work out. Believe it or not, I conceded this a long time ago. That left me with my other career goal: be a dad. Thankfully, that ended up happening, probably because my ability to hit a curveball has not (yet) been required.

***

At the moment, I have two children. Or maybe, my two children have me. I don’t mean that in the sense of “Oh, they’re so lucky to have me because I am THE BEST.” More like, they have me wrapped around their fingers, and have continually tightened that wrap every day since each of them showed up in my life.

(Disclaimer, before I gush about them: if you’ve never wanted to have kids, I totally don’t blame you. They stink all the time, even when they’re clean. They always have snot they want you to wipe away. Simple things, like putting a shirt on, take them 45 effing minutes. I literally have small greasy fingerprints on every single shirt I own. Kids are the best and the worst, and if you don’t want them, no worries.)

But I’ve always wanted to have kids, even when I was a kid. Even in my most desperate teenage moments of wanting a girlfriend – AND THERE WERE MANY; LORD WERE THERE MANY – a teeny, tiny, never-would-have-admitted-it-to-anyone-in-the-entire-world part of me would have to consider whether or not said girl would be someone with whom I’d want to be a parent. I mean, OF COURSE that wasn’t the first thing I was thinking (anyone who’s been a 15-year old boy KNOWS the first thing I was thinking), but it was there.

***

Long story short, two smaller versions of my wife and I live with us now. They are the best. My daughter does wonderful things. My son does wonderful things. Everything I hoped being a dad would be is what it actually is, including the part about being so tired I had to institute Movie Night Wednesday (code name: please watch this 90-minute movie so daddy can take an 85-minute nap, and also don’t die while he’s asleep). 

So why do I get anything for getting to do this? Our daughter always insists that I get donuts on any holiday (again, because she is the best), and I will eat the hell out of those donuts on Sunday, but I don’t need them as a gift for getting to live out the role I’ve always wanted.

The absolute best part of my day is walking in the door after work. (Granted, I haven’t won $500 million dollars in the lottery so far in life, so I don’t know if this will ALWAYS be the best part of my day.) I always look in the window before I unlock the front door, and they’re always there, doing something. Sometimes they’re coloring, sometimes they’re doing puzzles or playing with toys. Sometimes my son is already waiting at the window, and when he sees me he starts pounding on the glass like a lunatic.

When I unlock the door (if they haven’t beaten me to it first), I have about 2.3 seconds of prep before I get hug-and-kiss attacked by people who haven’t properly estimated their own strength. Sometimes I get an extra kiss, or in my son’s case, a blow to the head from a cookie sheet (it’s okay, that’s a sanctioned ‘You-Can-Only-Do-This-With-Dad’ activity). After that, I don’t think either of them stops talking to me about anything that pops in their respective heads until they’re finally asleep.

That brief connection is what I hoped fatherhood would be in a nutshell. Obviously, it will change over time (truth: if my 21-year old daughter and 19-year old son are greeting me that excitedly in the future, I will think something is tremendously wrong with them), but it will be replaced by things that are equally perfect.

I don’t need a day telling me that I’m great because I happen to be a father. I need my kids, every day, reminding me that I got what I always wanted.

Happy Father’s Day, my Darling and my Sweet Boy.

(Please still get me those donuts.)

***

One other thing: I heard “For the First Time” by John Legend, uh, for the first time, about three weeks ago, and even having never heard it before, I instantly thought of how I felt the first time I held each of my babies. I’m aware it’s about finding a partner (hence the line in the second verse ‘You see through me/Strip off all my clothes), but for me, it’s about twenty-some years of hope and purpose coming together in a tiny person, or two tiny people.

(Also, if we change the meaning of the one questionable line to being metaphorically reborn as a father, then it works. So please take me off your ‘Creepy Weirdo’ list, or at least keep me on there for more legitimate reasons.)

Here it is, if you’re interested. And if you’re not interested in John Legend, I GUESS YOU DON’T LIKE NICE THINGS.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JMfDJ5kzS0

Yeah, Daddy

Earlier this week, I put my iPod on shuffle for the first time in months. I feel like the shuffle setting is something I always look forward to even though I know I don’t like it. It’s the same relationship I have with tapioca pudding. This is how my interactions with shuffle always end up:

Me: Oh I know, I’ll just put it on shuffle. Whoa, I haven’t heard this forever. (Listens for ten seconds, then hits ‘Next’) Oh, haha. (Listens for five seconds, hits ‘Next’) Hmm. (Listens for two seconds, hits ‘Next’ over and over again until I get to a song I want) AHHH, here we go! (Does sexy dance moves)

Anyway, I put my iPod on shuffle, and this is the first song that pops up:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05pA5U-W32c

Two things: one, whoa, I haven’t heard this forever, and two, this song has always reminded me of my dad. This seems relevant because at the time, I was driving back from the hospital where my dad had almost died.

*

Last Friday, I got a phone call from my younger brother in the middle of the day. I was home because both my daughter and wife were sick, which turned out to be a marginal blessing (since I wasn’t at work). Initially, I wasn’t going to answer – not because I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but because I hate talking on the phone (so I guess yeah, I didn’t want to talk to anyone). But I answered, and I knew something was wrong because my brother didn’t sound tough. If you know my brother, he ALWAYS sounds tough. He makes crying at the end of The Notebook sound as MANLY as punching a tiger in the face.

“Hey…dad’s in the hospital…he’s in the ICU…you need to come down as soon as you can.” All of this was said through tearful gasps of air. My brother and I have a relationship where if one of us cries, the other one doesn’t – it might be a genetic disorder, for all I know. So I didn’t cry, and I sounded as tough as I could when I responded.

Some background: my dad almost died once before. He has pretty severe asthma, and as he’s gotten older it’s gotten progressively worse. One night, about six months ago, he woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t breathe. He passed out, stopped breathing entirely, and his girlfriend had to give him CPR and call an ambulance. Long story short, he didn’t die. But it was scary and awful and terrible.

Back to the recent present: I went in to my wife and told her my dad was in the hospital, and it sounded, well, bad. Like, he might die – tonight – bad. She was still sick, but she somehow pulled out of bed and into the shower. I think she asked me to pack some things for the kids, but I don’t remember. I sat on the bed and kind of looked around the room for no reason. I thought my dad was going to die, or worse, he was going to die and I wasn’t going to be there when he did.

*

My dad isn’t young, but he isn’t old either – he’ll turn 55 next month. To him, that’s ancient, but to me, well, I have friends younger than me who have older parents. He’s been afraid of death probably his entire life, but especially since he turned 50. He talks about dying a lot, although usually to joke about what to do with his body. My favorite recommendation: “It costs too much to bury someone, so just dig a hole in the yard and put me in there. You can put a rock or something down so you remember not to dig there again.”

*

When we got to the hospital, a lot of my family was already there. That’s the thing with Micronesians, man: those sons of bitches are loyal. Everyone looked either A) scared or B) tired or C) both. I hugged a few of them, especially my brother, and then I asked if we could see him. My brother said, “Yeah, let’s go.” While we walked down the hall, I thought about what I would say at his funeral. Right before we walked in the hospital room, my brother pulled me to him and whispered, “Brace yourself.”

My brother opened the door and went in first (which I bet, subconsciously, he did on purpose to protect me from…something). I followed him but didn’t look up until I was completely inside. There was my dad on a hospital bed, with millions of tubes and other shit attached to him, in a coma, on life support. His face was puffy, and he looked smaller and older than he does in my memories. 

“We can talk to him,” my brother said. “I think he can hear us, or I hope so.” We stood at either side of his bed and held each of his hands. I think the last time I held my dad’s hand was my first day of kindergarten.

My brother said, “Hey dad, Nelson’s here. We’re both here.” I didn’t know what to say, and I’m terrible with grief, so I said, “Hey dad. You look like shit.” I think when I tell him this when he’s out of the hospital, he’ll laugh. Or he’ll headbutt me. 

We went back and forth talking to him, or maybe talking at him, without really knowing what to say. The way my dad is, if he could have heard us, he probably would have tried to wake up and walk out of the hospital, so I think I just kept telling him to take his time and get better. The only thing I really remember either of us saying was when my brother, after a lengthy silence, said, “You aren’t supposed to look like this. You need to wake up.”

*

If my brother is tough, my dad is fucking Hercules. This is the man that once scolded my cousin for wearing flip-flops to a bar because “You can’t fight in those!” As if the only reason you would even think about going to a bar would be to fight. He’s tough in a man-that-guy-is-nuts-and-so-dumb-and-if-I-ever-accidentally-find-myself-in-a-fight-and-he’s-80-I’m-still-going-to-hope-he’s-behind-me way. 

Seeing him fighting to live is both backwards and makes total sense. Backwards because, well, your dad isn’t supposed to die, and sensible because in a way, he’s been fighting to live since he came to the United States. Fighting is in his blood, it’s a defining (if not THE defining) characteristic. He was a pool shark in his 20’s, but would look forward to the inevitable fight afterwards more than fleecing the poor suckers who believed he was a meek, short guy with a limited understanding of English. The number of fights he’s been in is probably the same number of times I’ve watched ‘Twins’ and gotten choked up when Vincent and Julius realize who their mother is. (Note: that number is disturbingly larger than you’re guessing.)

So yeah, he can’t die. I mean, he will, but he won’t. I mean, I know he kind of is, but he also isn’t. All of this makes total sense to me when I’m looking at him in his hospital bed.

*

He ends up being in the coma for two days. One of the last times I saw him while he was still under, the nurses had started trying to warm his body to wake him up, so to speak. He was marginally aware of his surroundings, and my brother and I went in to talk to/at him. This time though, even though he couldn’t see or speak (the latter because of the intubation), he started moving. Not just a little, but violently trying to sit up or, as I imagine, wanting to get the hell out of there. Both my brother and I begged him to calm down, but he wouldn’t (or, probably, couldn’t). He started to vomit because of all the movement, and we decided it would be better if we left until he was AWAKE awake. We walked out of the room and I remember thinking, “Oh…please don’t let that be his first conscious memory, his boys walking out on him.”

The next day, he was awake, but verrrry groggy. When I got there, his breathing tube had been out for a few hours. My brother told me the first words out of his mouth – right after they pulled the tube out – were “What the fuck is in my throat.” Even through the crudeness, that comment was an instant source of relief: his sparkling personality seemed to be intact. He might be an asshole, but he’s our asshole. 

My brother had joked that he was probably the only patient the nurses had ever seen that was just as much of a dick when he was unconscious as when he was awake. I can’t prove that statement is true, but I believe it.

*

During the first 24 hours of my dad being awake, there were many highlights in his ‘conversations’ with people. A sampling:

Dad (garbled): Mfmmvkdfj…
His girlfriend: What? What did you say?
Dad (garbled, agitated): Mfmmvkdfj…
His girlfriend: What? I love you?
Dad (furrows brow): GRRRRRRRR.

Dad (to me): You…didn’t…mmm…have  to drive down…to see me.
Me: Yes I did – I had to see you in a position where I could actually beat you up.
Dad (smiles): Heh…I could still…kick your ass…right now…

Dad: What…floor are we on…
My Brother: The fifth floor.
Dad: Mmm…that must be…where they put…all the poor people.

Dad (out of absolutely nowhere): E.T.! PHONE…HOME…
His girlfriend: What?
Dad: I’m calling…the alien doctors…to take me out of this hospital.

*

So here we are a week later: my dad had an awful asthma attack, and almost died. He was placed into a medically induced coma. He had two seizures while unconscious, and he still doesn’t have full use of all his limbs (especially his left arm). He doesn’t like hospitals, and wants to be home (every day I’ve visited him and he’s been conscious, he says “I’ll be home tomorrow, come visit me at home.”). My brother and I - and my dad’s girlfriend - have been there every day, and we are physically and emotionally exhausted, but I know he needs us there, even if he can’t say it.

Someday my dad will die, and I’ll have to go through all of this again. 

*

That song up there at the beginning of this, uh, post, I guess, is by Nas, and it’s called “Bridging the Gap.” If I told my dad it was the song on my iPod that reminded me most of him, he would say three things. First, “An iPod is the one with music?” Second, “Who is Nas?” Third, “Ugh, I hate hip-hop.”

But it reminds me of him nonetheless. The way I hear it, the protagonist – now a grown man - is fully appreciating his father in spite of any shortcomings. He recognizes the strength he was given, regardless of how it was provided.

Near the end of the last chorus, in between his dad singing, Nas says two things: One is “Yeah, daddy!” and the last one is “Love ya, boy!” To me, that’s the sound of a man admitting he still loves his father the way he did as a child, while acknowledging their status as equals. You’re my dad, and we’re the same. Maybe Nas would shake his head at this assessment (my dad certainly would), but it helps me make sense of the last week. My dad almost died; my friend almost died. But he didn’t.

Love ya, boy.