Always the Subject

I knew my Dad was about to go on an epic drinking binge.

He had been doing well and then when I talked to him a couple weeks ago on the phone I knew. There was a slight slur in his speech. I’m probably the only one in the world that could have picked up on it. I didn’t confront him about it though. What would be the point?

It starts with the casual drinking, like what I heard on the phone. He keeps himself under control for a while, then comes the binge, followed up by the inevitable crash... But he’s a grown man. He lives four hours away. I couldn’t stop him from drinking. I can't imagine hearing a lecture from his son would have changed the outcome.

So I wasn’t surprised when I got the call saying he had landed in the hospital… I was told he wanted a visit... I was hesitant.

I knew his real goal was to make sure word got back to my mother. That’s always the goal.

Whenever we talk on the phone he forces himself through the routine talk about my life, the state of the Redskins, how my sister has been… and then he steers the conversation to the point it was always meant to go… My mother.

Sometimes he calls her a vindictive bitch and he wants to hear bad news about her. He tells me not to trust her.

Other times she’s a saint who deserved something better than what he gave her. If he could just get her back then everything would be okay. We could be a family again.

His opinion of her may change depending on his mood, but she’s ALWAYS the subject.

My wife said I was being cynical. He was in the hospital and just wanted to see his son… So I went… But I was not going to let myself feel any emotion. Not for him… never again…

He was asleep when I got into the room. His skin was gray and colorless, his body thin and weak. It didn’t look like my dad, it looked like an actor playing my dad.

I sat next to the bed in silence. The nurse said he might be confused or disoriented. They had been giving him sedatives to try and help him through the withdrawal but he was still giving them “some trouble”… I know the kind of “trouble” he’s capable of. I was sure she'd had plenty of insults, curses, and probably even a few bed pans hurled at her since he'd checked in.

I watched him as he snored lightly. I could see tears welled up in the corners of his closed eyes.

“He’s so dramatic,” I thought to myself.

I reached out and gently shook his arm… “Wake up old man,” I chided.

He opened his eyes and studied my face for a second. “Joel?”

He reached out and grabbed my hand. I could feel him trembling.

He started to say something that I think was going to be “I’m sorry” but before he could finish getting the words out his entire body began shaking. Tears were streaming down his face.

He tried to say something else, but that too was incoherent.

He had a tight grip on my hand. Even in intensive care and going through withdrawal he was still physically stronger than me.

“Just relax” I told him.

I started to say “everything is going to be alright” or something reassuring but I just couldn’t bring myself to say it. He was looking pretty rough. I wasn’t really prepared to see him in this condition...

It wasn’t just some pathetic attempt to lure my mother down here. He really was sick after all.

I felt my eyes begin to water… I tried to fight it off by taking deep breathes, but it was no use. When he pulled my hand close to his chest I felt the tears begin to stream down my cheeks.

We sat in silence for another ten minutes. Eventually the trembling subsided and he was able to get his body under control.

I was glad I had come down to visit. My dad needed me. He had always been there for me- or he would have- you know, had he been capable… I think… Regardless, I was going to be there for him.

My wife was right, how could I have been so cynical? This is my dad!

He looked at me and started to say something.

“What is it Dad? Can I get you anything? What do you need?” I eagerly asked.

“Where...?” his voice was shaky and weak.

I leaned forward to hear him better.

“Where… Where… is your mother?”