Some Thoughts and a Story or Two

I was just watching Oprah and drinking my morning coffee. I've had to ice my neck and back as I think I'm under sufficient stress right now that I've had nasty patches of inflammation breaking out all over the place. Grr. I feel better now.

Soon, I'll head into the office. I've done the morning calls -- the hospital, some family, so forth. No change in my father's condition from yesterday, but he had improved some since I'd seen him Sunday. I'm hoping that's a positive. I hope he has the strength to fight this. I'm going to let him rest, though, because having visits seems to take a lot out of him.

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Oprah featured a bit with Emilio Estevez and his new bio pic on Bobby Kennedy, Bobby. I don't know enough about the man, and something struck me watching it: Wonder what Dad thought about Kennedy's death?

I want to know, now. I want him to live so I can ask some more questions. Is that selfish? I dunno, maybe.

I think the thing about illness and life-and-death scares is that it provokes people to spontaneously remember the sick person. They tell stories they've bottled up for years and remember things even they thought they'd forgotten. What I keep hearing about Dad is what a kind, kind, loving man he is. And I'm angry about it sometimes, because my dad changed when I was a kid -- he's never really been the same and I've never really gotten to know the real guy.

Sometimes you know when someone's thrown in the towel in life and my dad always seemed like that kind of person. I've resented it, because I wish he'd been more enthused and could have shared more with me before now.

I do remember one story, and it makes sense to me... My father should've played a larger role in my life. The rare times he's had influence on me have been great. As a kid, 12 years old, he bought me a book about children in American slavery, a black history book. That thing changed my life.

But the story I remember is of he and my mother, when they were dating or something, about the early '60s, and they drove down into the States and got lost in some poor neighbourhood. Being Canadian and somewhat ignorant about how pervasive American race problems were, he pulled off to the side of the road and told my mom to wait in the car. He strolled into a coffee shop, wandered right up to the counter, and as he was about to say "Excuse me" and ask for directions, EVERYTHING in the shop stopped. He said he looked around and saw about sixty black faces. All not talking, no cutlery clinking, all the black faces staring at him aghast and bitterly, like the devil just strolled in. My dad said, "We're lost." The black woman behind the counter looked him up and down and replied, "Well, I should say so."

He says he took a cup of coffee and got the hell on out of there.

He told me that story last year. I never hear stories like that from him. I write a lot about communication on my other blog and the irony is, my own family's communication's been shit from the time I was a child. All this shame and secrecy, you know. Sigh.

My pledge now, though, is, if Dad pulls through this, I'm going to get some more stories out of him. I know he'll enjoy telling them if he knows I'm interested. I think too many of us kids forget that a life existed before us. I wanna know about that life.

Truth be told, I sometimes feel like my brother and I and a couple incidents in my dad's life all colluded in order to wreck my dad's enjoyment of life. And I know it's not that way. It's more like a guy who was in love with a woman all his life, a woman who stopped loving him when their kids were little. We always saw that in his eyes from a long, long time back. I honestly don't know when I last saw a zest for living in his eyes. Yesterday, I saw a glimmer of hope and want in his eyes, and that's the thing that's keeping me hopeful. I want to believe he has this fight in him. I really wanna believe that, and god knows I'm trying to.

Well. I should work. Coffee's done. The day's a sunny day, so I'll take a more scenic route to work and enjoy the break in weather. Here's hoping most people in the office know to ignore my presence. I got the word out I hope that I'm not to be pestered with well-wishing and checking-in. People mean well, but when others are constantly reminding you of the bad shit it your life, it's hard to maintain control over it. People who've been THROUGH shit know to just nod or pat you on the back or offer a good smile. But, hey, a little small talk never hurt.

Off I go.