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.