St. Anthony Parkway and my dad.

I write for a lot of reasons but one of them is so I don't forget.  And recently, I forgot.  

I forgot that I had a "secret route" to the hospital when my dad was at North Memorial for 3 months.  It's a not so secret route, as people take it every day to various places, but it was my time of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of 694 and 100.  It weaved through St. Anthony Parkway, through a Camden park and up Memorial Parkway.  It is a beautiful route, one in which I would get lost staring at houses, driving down this street or that to avoid the hospital where he was fighting for his life.  Now I know why I forgot that route.  

I live right by St. Anthony Parkway and as I was driving down it today with my daughter asleep in the backseat, I had a flashback of me in my maroon Geo Prism.  I had been here before and it made me sad.  I felt like I was in a prime-time drama: uncovering something that I kept hidden away because when I felt it, I didn't like it.  I followed my intuition, over the train tracks, across Marshall, over the River and that's where it hit me.  The long parkway to the hospital where his leukemia diagnosis was waiting for me.  I forgot what it felt like to pull into the parking ramp with the always familiar face smiling at me when I took the card from the automatic machine, the same face who would be there four hours later asking me to "have a nice day" when I left.  I forgot about the walk to the elevator where I would repeat the number of the level I was parked on.  Only 4 levels but after an emotionally draining day, the level in which my car was parked on was the last thing I remembered.  I forgot about the gigantic revolving door on the left after I stepped out of the elevator, the one that always awaited a discharged patient fresh from having babies or an oncology surgery.  I was always envious of the person pushing the wheelchair, knowing they were the "next of kin" and anxious to be able to kiss the hospital and their overpriced cafeteria food good-bye.  I forgot about the gift shop on the right and the deli on the left with the divine blueberry muffin and turtle mocha that I could always trust to walk me the rest of the way to my dad's room.  He changed rooms so frequently that on more than three occasions I went to the wrong room, knocked on the wrong door and walked in on the wrong ailment.  Once I found him, he would be sleeping, waiting for nobody.  But the great thing was, he was always surprised to see me.  I was a surprise party every time I crossed the threshold into his room except I didn't come with balloons and confetti and presents.  Afterall, this is a hospital, not a place of celebration.  After staring at the white walls, the same television, complaining about the showers that he had to take, the dressing changes he had to have and the bed he had to stay in, I probably felt like Muhammad Ali to him.  I was always going to be his surprise and I liked it.  

I forgot what it felt like to see him in his hospital bed.  I was never sad but looking back now, I'm saddened that it wasn't painful to watch my dad suffer.  His suffering and agony was all I knew.  

You won't hear me speak of my dad in the same way I do my mom.  I love them equally, yes, but I grieve them differently.  She, although her fight was far from over, was ready to accept her fate.  He, confused and bewildered, probably felt relief from the life he was leaving but didn't know why.  My mom was my mother and I still need her every day.  Almost nine years gone and she still knows how to make my bad day good because she left me with these memories:  When she reached for my hand in the middle of church and rolled her eyes at the lengthly homily or the bunny rabbit birthday cake that I requested she make four years in a row.  And on the fifth year, she refused.  She was the best at tucking me in at night and the best at being careful not to wake my dad when I was supposed to sleep on the floor in her room instead of in her bed with them.  And even four days to her death, she was still mom, reassuring me how similar we are and that I don't see it now but I have to let my brother's live their own lives.  That I have to not worry about them and that it would be my lifelong struggle to stop carrying around the weight of their pain along with mine.  She saw the adult I was going to grow to be and as she reached for my hand and closed her eyes, I could feel her satisfaction.  

I know he was not always this way but as long as I can remember my dad was completely dependent on my mom.  My dad and I vied for my mom's attention.  We even fought over television programs.  I don't have many memories of my dad as a caregiver or as his responsibility.  I know he was always proud of me and loved me unconditionally because you could see it when he looked at me.  The part I struggle with is the memories.  When I reach into that vault of happiness, I more often reach for my mom.  Except there's this one that is always waiting to be reopened: It was March 27th, 1992.  I was in room 100 at Immaculate Conception School and we were having show and tell.  I sat in the circle, ready to share my purple wand from Disney World when I saw my dad's cane and legs through the window.  I remember being flustered when it came my turn to share because I was sure I saw him.  Soon enough the whole class had shared their goodies and there was a knock at the door.  My Kindergarten teacher told me to answer the door, at which point I was sure the legs and cane were not my dad's because it had clearly been hours.  I was not catching on that it was him at the door.  When I opened it, he was there on one knee with six red roses.  I shut the door because I thought we were in trouble and I went back to the circle with cheeks as red as those roses.  He opened the door and the classroom erupted in gasps and than my teacher insisted it was okay he was there.  I ran to him, asked him who the flowers were for (duh) and wrapped my arms tightly around his neck.  He leaned on his cane for support and I shifted my weight to balance, his mustache grazed my cheek and everyone heard the whisper that was meant for me.  

And there's this one too:  When I was in fifth grade I purposely dove face first to slide across a patch of ice on the playground.  The bell had rung and I had gotten careless, worrying about not making it to the line and being scolded for putzing around.  I dove, my chin hit the ice and I stood up with an "ow."  My friend Joe Roith had witnessed the entire thing and put his glove under my chin to catch the blood, "You're bleeding" he said.  I knew it hurt but stitches, I thought, were a bit extreme.  The nurse called my dad who told him I needed to go to the emergency room, that the gash was deep enough to see bone.  I waited in the nurses office for his phone call from his car phone.  Stairs had become too much of a hassle at this point so if he picked me up from school he called the office to inform them of his arrival and I had a personal escort to his car and in this case, it was the nurse.  She leaned into the car after I had hopped into the passenger seat, "I can't believe her pain tolerance.  She was ready to put a band-aid on it and call it a day."  My dad laughed and patted my knee.  We said thank you and goodbye and we drove off in his Lincoln Continental through the empty parking lot.  We stopped at the exit onto the one-way and he pulled a Snyder's bag from the glove box, "Here, let's throw these on there" he said.  "What are they?" I asked.  "Butterfly stitches.  Same thing as a regular stitch, sort of" he said as he applied the sticky white strips to my chin and concluded, "Wanna go to Circus-Circus?"  

Unlike my mom, I miss what he could have been.  And of course, I miss who he was.  I will always wish to have had an adult relationship with both of them but it's my dad who I wish I could have been his little girl because the years I experienced being his little girl were so minute and short.  My child always morphed into adult because the circumstances called for it.  Our dynamic was unique, discouraging and sometimes painful but it was "us" which I can settle in accepting.  In spite of all the hardships his poor soul endured, he always smiled.  Any terrible diagnosis was forgotten within minutes.  No grudges were held or bad blood was shared for the friends and relatives he lost in spite of his diagnosis.  He was a fighter from the beginning to the end.  "Same shit, different day" was his motto and oh how true it was.  His view of life was extraordinary and In the words of one of my favorite musical artists: He had no other offers or options.  Monotony was his life but smiling broke it up, especially to the average person who couldn't fathom a smile in his condition.    

Rather than mourn for the dad he couldn't be, I will celebrate the dad he was which was couragous, optimistic, funny but most of all proud.  He was proud.  Proud that even though they didn't work: he had legs.  Proud that even though he thought his address was his childhood home: he had a memory that could remember every football game or boxing match.  Proud that even though she was gone: he married his best friend.  Proud that even though he couldn't be the dad he wanted to be: he helped raise us, loved us and knew we would carry his legacy with us just by being the people we are.  Dad, I wouldn't trade the short years I got to have you as an active dad for a lifetime of one because those short years taught me the value of a dad, the value of a childhood and the value of a life.  You are remarkable dad.