Shine A Light On Me

My dad was fading with each day. His skin was terribly dry due to not having bathed more than twice in four or five months. Ashes of his skin, fallen from when he would scratch, were all over his chair. When he was in pain he sat leaning to one side of his recliner, his fist propping up his skull, face grimacing tightly as he stared at the tv. Sometimes I sat at the kitchen table and worked on a needlepoint hummingbird until my arm hurt. Other times I sat on the couch and read. 

Sometimes I showed him my hummingbird, inspired by the ones outside on the patio. He would look at it and say, “I could never do that.” One afternoon I brought out my projects from my metal-smithing class. I showed my parents the silver necklace I had made of the Hecho de Mexico eagle and my hand-weaved silver chain. My dad grinned in amazement when I showed him the silver ring I was wearing, that I had made by shaping and soldering three rings together. Saving the best for last, I handed him the circular container and told them how I’d used the magnolia leaves pressed in the surface. As he sat admiring the rivets I explained that they spelled out his constellation. His fingers brushed across the metal, his face too humbled to express a reaction to the tribute. 

During this brief time toward the end of January, things felt reliable and calm. We had stayed at this predictable hum all through the month. He’d wake up, we’d make something he could eat, mostly soups. His snacks were almond crackers or pretzels and then in the evening tea I made for us all. This was our routine, it seemed to work. At night I found respite from the stress in my room.

One day a coworker of his he’d known for a long time called the house. When my dad got on the phone, his entire voice changed. It was bizarre. His voice was no longer weak, it was normal and downright loud. He was cursing and joking in a way I’d never heard my dad speak before. I sat astonished at this other side of him and his dedicated illusion. They spoke for almost thirty minutes. It was stunning but when he hung up, it was over. The big, strong voice was gone. He sat weakened from the effort.

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All my life I had been frustrated by my dad’s lack of feelings. As a teen, I found his inability to have more than four emotions ranging from comedic, angry, annoyed, or indifferent, to be extraordinarily aggravating and often disappointing. He had a way of missing all evidence of a delicate situation or being gentle. He didn’t get it. This emotional canyon between us had widened as I hit puberty and became compounded by his drinking problem.

In my teen years, I was thoroughly resentful of him and how he didn’t seem to understand why I wanted to be an artist, not a computer science major. He was mathematical and extremely analytical. Of course I was not. It took a long time before he would eventually come to realize it wasn’t a choice for me and it was in his best interest to care about what I loved if he truly wanted me to be happy. But still, the emotional parts were always non-existent. 

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I got to college childishly believing that emotions were something he didn’t possess. I found out I was wrong the year when my mom had her cancer scare. My mom had a mass on her ovary that had yet to be removed. I hadn’t known at that time that there was a possibility it could be cancerous, something that they had also shielded me from. Somewhere during this time I was home one weekend from college. 

While working on a painting, sitting in the living room together, he suddenly broke into an unidentifiable expression. It almost seemed like a laugh, but it wasn’t. He had a few drinks and he was talking to me about my work. As I sat stunned, he was telling me that he thought I was special, that my art was special and that he saw amazing things in what I could do. As tears came out of his eyes, I sat frozen, shocked at the moment. I didn’t know how to react. It was as if my dad didn’t even know how to cry. I know now that he was probably upset about my mom, but at that moment it came out in some desperate attempt to validate what I loved. Maybe out of regret that he never had before. 

Thinking of that memory now, I can only wonder if he was panicking at the possibility that I would have to endure something he could not protect me from. A perspective that took me years to realize. This man who wanted me to be independent, smart, and strong also couldn’t bear the idea of me having to face something life-altering and traumatizing. Equally interesting that all his adversities are what brought him to those resilient qualities.  

Another “emotional incident” happened only once more about a couple years later. One night home from the dorms I brought up the subject of our beloved dog Puddles, that had passed away the year earlier. She died a few months after my mom’s health scare and surgery, resolving the matter. Our little, spunky family dog, who I had since third grade, died the year I moved out and after my mom had recovered. It seemed quite strange that she died only after my mom’s health had improved.

On this night home, I was about twenty and thinking that I could be as tough as my dad. With my coolest exterior, I brought up Puddles. With the presence of a little alcohol during this conversation, my dad suddenly began to get upset. The amazing part is that I didn’t even realize it. Expecting my dad to be the robot I’d always known, he instead started to come apart at the hinges. This time, it was more than the year before. 

He looked like an animal unsure of how to proceed, his voice choking on words. His tears sent electrical currents of shame through my body for not thinking of my dad as a person, as someone who could hurt. Talking about the painful day of Puddles dying, hiding under their bed, our beloved childhood pet leaving their nest completely empty, “I wrapped her up in one of my robes… that’s what she’s buried in out there!” motioning to the backyard, his face broken, wet with tears. I sat completely astonished, baking in a mixture of guilt and grief. 

All the times I thought of my dad and his ability to be a jerk, at that moment it was me. I felt bad for bringing up something I wouldn’t dare to around my mom knowing it would make her upset. My dad was human, how dare I not be able to consider that? I had been so judgmental of him my whole life and now I realized how much of it wasn’t his fault. Somehow, no one had shown him how to be okay with letting things out, to the point he didn’t seem to even know how. Those were the only two times in my entire life I ever saw my dad upset.