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Treasure the time you have.
My father and I have a distant relationship, for lots of reasons. He's never really known what to do with an unpredictable, talented, misfigured child - he's one of those people who's been expected to excel, and has exceeded his goals all of his life. He's been superior, but normal. His son - that's me - I'm mercurial, an artist (of sorts), a writer, a recluse, a harelip... someone who's never really fit "normal" and really can't, inside.
It's no wonder that my father and I have trouble communicating in primal ways. We talk; we understand each other in lots of ways, but we're too different to really do the father/son fishing thing. (Naturally, in a fit of revenge, the Universe foisted three sons on me, all of whom differ from me in the same ways I differed from my father. Hmph! Maybe this is normal and I just had no idea.)
My father disappeared for thirteen years, right after I graduated high school. I could tell you why, but I won't - the result was that I had no contact or knowledge of him, and since I kinda matured late ("What? You matured?" Shut up.) I ended up doing most of my growing up without him. It's not his fault; I was too sheltered, on my own initiative, to really do my maturation when most of us do it.
He returned out of the blue one day, with kidney failure. Congenital high blood pressure, combined with a feeling of immortality, combined with not-so-great medical care had combined to kill off his kidneys, and he needed a transplant - he was already on dialysis, and it would get worse. He spent a few years that way. He couldn't really travel, and neither could I - so we talked a good bit on the phone, and we saw each other when we could - he made arrangements to come up and spend time with me and my family in 2005, which was a lot of fun and very good for my children, my wife, and I.
On our return to Indianapolis, on my anniversary of all days, his ship came in: after six years of waiting on a transplant list, he finally received a kidney. My wife and I were actually passing through the city he was in (Birmingham, Alabama) when we found out, so we made a quick stop by his hospital to see him. I really thought that was the hand of God, and still do. Occam's razor, and all that.
A few weeks ago (one? one and a half? I don't know) he called and said that he had a glial blastoma, or glioblastoma - I'm not sure what the technical term for it is. (Are they different? Ask a doctor. I don't know.) Basically, he has a fast-growing cancerous tumor in his brain, at the base where the spinal cord connects. It's terminal. He's mostly an invalid now, can't walk, no feeling in his hands.
My family and I had made arrangements to go down and see him - I was prepared to go down last week, but he said it could wait ("within the next ten days") so we were going to leave this week - Thursday, arriving Friday, because there's a winter storm coming up from the South that would be dangerous to travel in.
But last night...
My father and I talked. He's losing his ability to enunciate (I'm the mushmouth, Dad); he's not sure he'll make it to Friday without becoming someone other than who he is. He asked if I had any questions about my family on his side, about him, anything... to preserve what knowledge I felt I needed from him before he lost it.
I cannot begin to describe that. It's a sense of recognition. I know I'm not unique in feeling it, but I've always been a reflection of my father... and one of the most effective lines in any song I've ever written was "How can I reflect you, without you?" I meant it. Losing my father is like losing part of myself.
Even when he wasn't there, his shadow was pushing me on. I've been chasing him and his accomplishments my whole life, choosing different avenues because I couldn't choose his - I'm not a candidate for a lot of the things he's been. Times have changed, or I've simply not been eligible. Where my father excelled, I've been ordinary; where he was ordinary, I excelled. (Well, neither one of us can sing.) He has the gift of mathematics; I'm good at it (although I usually just approximate) but my gift is language, expression, psychology.
Hard sciences against soft sciences. My father, me. Our competition echoed throughout my life. I sheltered my formal IQ score for years because I thought it was higher than his - I didn't want to brag - only to find out last night that his beat mine by five points. Dadgummit! I thought I had him! -- and one of the crowning achievements of my life, and the reason I don't play chess any more, is when I beat him mano a mano in a fierce and well-played chess match that challenged us both to our limits. I never played well after that, didn't care to; I'd done what I wanted to do, had gotten as high as I cared to go.
And now I'm staring down a future where he's not there.
I love you, Dad. You'll never read this, but I can only hope you've heard it echoed in everything I've ever done. My grandfather tempered me, but you provided the steel. I will always try to live up to who you are and were, I will always expect more out of others because you expected more out of me. I hope I've delivered. I will miss you forever.
Selah.
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