Unhappy Father’s Day
It wasn’t a happy Father’s Day.
One of my four siblings and I visited my dad and we spent the morning chatting, giving presents, and taking a walk with him and my mom.
It was okay, but it wasn’t happy. Not really. Maybe it was the fact that my dad’s stomach was bothering him. Maybe it was because none of us slept well. Maybe it’s because my mom has been stressed lately. Oh! You know what it could be? It might have been a less-than-ideal Father’s Day because my dad is on his 38th day straight in the hospital with his second round of induction for leukemia, he’s gone through almost a year of chemotherapy treatment, he suffers through painful arthritis every day, and he deals with all the physical and emotional side effects of this fucking awful situation.
Yeah, he makes that old Gilda Radner sketch seem like a walk in the park.
But, you don’t know my dad. He always fights hard, figuratively and literally, for his and his loved ones’ happiness, even though the typical things that make people happy never seem to come easily to him.
He grew up in Mount Oliver, a rough part of Pittsburgh. This is where most of the literal fighting happened, making him a street-smart kid — and later a very worried dad. When I was 14, I found him in the garage around noon on a Saturday and said, “Bye, Daddy, I’m walking over to Erica’s house.” I walked to Erica’s house often. He anxiously rummaged quickly in a drawer and responded, “Do you have shoes on that you can run away from someone in? Here — take this wire in case you need to stab someone.” Sure, it’s funny in retrospect knowing that I got to Erica’s house safely, but as a child himself, my dad saw many fights that should have been minor kerfuffles end in gang beatings or unconscious kids bleeding on the asphalt. He was a tough kid because he had to be.
He almost caught a break in college when he met my mom and asked her out, several times. (She later admitted she only dated him because he was a pizza delivery guy, and she hoped her roommates would get free pies.) He didn’t realize that dating this discerning, intelligent, brutally honest babe would mean being accepted by her six burly brothers, a sassy kid sister, and her parents. One in-law reportedly had to give foot rubs for several years to my Gramma Kay to ingratiate himself to the family. And my Grampa Louie — co-owner of a topless bar downtown — certainly didn’t warm easily to anyone who dated his eldest daughter, let alone this skinny boy from Mount Oliver. But, that was nothing to my dad. A few years later, and he was part of the family. Another obstacle cleared.
He’s endured countless mishaps as a carpenter in New York City, one time backing a belt sander into his stomach with no one else around to help him. Ouch. He’s had shitty landlords, scary neighbors, and run-ins with plenty of weirdos. Later, as a journalist, he dealt with asshole politicians trying to intimidate him, coworker “friends” who turned out to be selfish and self-serving, and shady judges who he helped oust, bringing a little more justice to the world that hasn’t always been just to him.
He’s supported all five of his children at our worst. At different times, we’ve been physically downtrodden, clinically depressed, broke, unkind, angry, unhinged, and just plain mean — to him, to my mom, and to those we love most. He’s put up with enough family drama for the entire tree.
And he did it all by himself.
HAHAHAHA YEAH RIGHT.
Despite all these roadblocks, my dad has been pretty happy his whole life, and it is partially, if not mostly, because of my mom. If you want to see him unhappy, say something bad about her. That’s hard to do, because she’s fucking rad, and everyone knows it. She’s the cool one, and she’s smart as hell. He’ll brag about her to anyone he knows — how she gets any job she applies for, how she gets promoted almost immediately, how she can sew and is crafty and thoughtful with gifts, how she manages the finances, how she’s resourceful and optimistic, how she helps save lives for a living, and, of course, how she “looks so pretty today, huh? Didja see how pretty she looks in that color?” Spoiler alert, it’s any color.
Maybe my mom, with her incessant love, her honest affection, and her genuine belly laughs — maybe it’s her fault that Father’s Day wasn’t that happy. I mean, if she hadn’t given him years of happiness before all this cancer stuff, then he wouldn’t expect to be happy at all. He’s clearly thinking about her all the time. What’s he complain about the most? Not getting to see his wife, not getting to relax with her at home, not getting to eat her home-cooking, not being his usual goofy-ass self around her to make her laugh.
If we were raised differently, if we were raised to love each other less, then this whole ordeal would be a lot easier.
I think of superheroes like Spiderman or Batman, ones my dad grew up following in his comic books, and modern-day fictional heroes like Arya Stark. Why do we love their stories? They risk their lives to save those they love, usually in battle with one final blow that conquers their enemy for good. Maybe it takes their life too, but either way, what a moment!
My dad and mom deserve to be idolized compared to these imaginary heroes. Imagine fighting the Night King every single night because your fevers are back. Winter is coming? No, that’s just you shivering as the fevers break, soaking your bedsheets. Now imagine knowing it’s going to happen again and again. For my dad, it’s not a moment of bravery, it’s many moments of bravery, day in and day out. And watching someone be that brave, being the caretaker that can never perform the miracle you wish for so badly, being my mom, that takes incredible strength that The Hulk would only envy.
For my dad, it’s not a moment of bravery, it’s many moments of bravery, day in and day out.
Unsure of the outcome, slog through the treatment to fight an illness that you may not be able to beat. Get chemotherapy, ignore your pain and blurry medicine-induced haze you’re forced to live in, and try to survive an illness that, before modern medicine, would have surely ended your life. You don’t know whether any of this crap, in the end, will help your quality of life, but you’ll make the sacrifice anyway. If there’s a small chance this will help, you’ll do it, not just for yourself but because you know there are people that rely on you and have relied on you their whole lives.
The loud acts of momentary bravery, whether fictional or not, are well and good. But my mom and dad, this Father’s Day and always, deserve to be recognized for this war they’re waging every single day and every single night, not knowing how it’s going to turn out but willing to toil through it anyway.
Daddy, there has always been a lot of uncertainty in your life. The only difference with this new fight is that people collect more official statistics on cancer as opposed to making a wonderful, fulfilling, happy life. But you’ve beat the odds before, and I’d bet all my money that you’ll do it again.
So, Unhappy Father’s Day today, but thank you for giving us hope that there are many more happy ones to come. Plus, we can always make up our own holiday once you’re out of the hospital!
