Erasing My Father

Thanksgiving afternoon, after packing up the food to take to dad, I had a task to perform. One which my mom’s been asking me to accomplish for a couple of weeks. Before dad got sick there were creditors at his back. (Some might not want to admit this about a parent, but I know before he got sick, we had talked about ways to handle it but then things happened and he didn't get a chance to fix it.) Now that he’s incapacitated and cannot speak for himself, they have been calling the house regularly. We’ve spent months explaining the situation. We’ve told countless collectors that he is in no condition to speak to them, write to them, show up and make arrangements with them… nothing. What part of weak heart, failed kidneys, impaired thinking, difficulty speaking, uncoordinated limbs and needing months of recuperation are they having a problem with? We offered to send hospital documents to them and they didn’t e even want them. They just wanted to “speak with him”. So finally, after consulting a lawyer a couple of times and getting advice, we decided it was time to take my dad’s booming baritone voice off of the answering machine.

There are no words to describe the inner tumult this sent me into. I didn’t have any outward tears or long discussions about it. But I spent weeks hearing my father’s voice in my head. Remembering every rise and fall of his voice. How his voice would swell and deepen whenever he was in his role of “locutor” for a church function. How he would pause at certain points during a prayer service. How, if he was telling a joke, his baritone became more tenor and slightly mocking and you could tell when he was anticipating laughter to follow.

In my head I heard his singing. I heard him singing when he was serious and when he was mocking himself, becoming a caricature of a grand singer. I heard calling me when I used to hide in the closet and wait for him to find me when he got home from work. It was a game we played my whole childhood. He would come through the door and I would always hide in the tall armoire in my room. He would come in, “cuncuna mamana”, he would sing, and he would whistle (Do, do, do, do Dooo(8ve up) Laaaa). I have been hearing that whistle all week. That whistle incited a squirming and burrowing inside the armoire as I tried to hide behind the clothing, while in anticipation. Because I knew when he finally found me he would grab me, pull me out and cover me with kisses.

His voice was only ever angry a few times that I can recall. Mostly it was a voice filled with love and compassion and understanding. Among the many beautiful things about my dad that have been taken by this illness, is his voice as I knew it. The message on the answering machine was priceless. I couldn’t just erase it. Instead, first I re-recorded it twice, for safe keeping. Then I finally got around to erasing it. But the moment when I hit the button and started to record the new outgoing message felt like I was undoing something forever. I thought to myself, “I’m erasing my dad. Oh God. I’m erasing my dad.” I didn’t cry. I simply went into the living room and told mom and Sandra it was done and we should go visit him now. I didn’t want to dwell on it on Thanksgiving. But now, two days later, I had to write about it. Because that voice is one of the dearest things I’ve ever heard. And at least I can still hear it in my head. I still hold out hope I will hear it sound like that again someday soon.

Wise-Ass-Dom

"A man will never be as in love with you as he is with himself."
"If you do find a man who loves you more than himself - run - it's a trap."

-- Alice Carots :)

So sick of you.

Antiquated
Loathsome
Exasperating
Self-serving
Sanctimonious
Impostor
Oblique

Feel Good Day

Emancipated
Freed
Liberated
Flying
Floating
Moving
Changing
Dancing
Twirling
Skipping
Jumping
Excited
Animated
Me.