Magic Words
An Adoption Story
It started with an unexpected phone call in September. Mom answered with her “Hello”; a blend of maple syrup and fluffed pillows. They might have taught this in a 1950s finishing school, except she never went to one. Sometimes it was entertaining. She could scream bloody hell about something, usually me, but when the phone rang a transformation occurred. By the end of the second ring, her “Hello” persona was complete.
The voice on the other end of the call made her face flush and heart race. Her “Hello” voice faded by the end of the conversation. She stammered and tripped over her words as she said they would come to the hospital as soon as her husband got home.
Dad rolled into the driveway on an autumn day that sweated the height of summer. He never liked the heat. His clothes sticky from a bad day smelling like sawdust, hard work, and tobacco. An ice cold beer, followed by a steamy shower, was something he looked forward to. As he backed in, he caught Mom in his rearview mirror waving her hands. Something was wrong.
“Jesus, Sheila, what is it? Is everything ok?”
Her tear-filled smile told him it wasn’t bad. In a rapid staccato, only he could interpret, came, “WehavetogotoSeattletonightThehospitalcalled.”
They arrived at the hospital with Mom talking a mile a minute. Ever since Mom told Dad the news, she was a constant stream of chatter. Usually, he calmed her down, but he was anxious too. He knew this day would come and yet he felt unprepared. While Mom talked, Dad paced. The nurse arrived. Her entrance silenced Mom. My parents shared looks of, “this is it.” The nurse handed me to my new Mother.
On the day they adopted me, I met an amazing man, my Dad. Rough times have happened though. We’ve had emotional distances and lost time. I own most of that. Dad pulled back now and then. I can be a bit much. Chances are it started around the time I took their Volvo out for a joy ride and wrecked it. No matter who’s blaming who for whatever rough times happen in families. Most people; fathers, sons, daughters, and mothers, have regrets. Family can’t be a family without some. How to resolve them, is the question.
A father’s relationship with his son is always a mixed bag. When you are a helpless little dude, dad is God. He was my first best friend, confidant, savior, and protector. The first time he saved my life we were at the beach. I waded near the shore but stepped into a deep hole. He plucked his three-year-old to the surface in seconds. The last time happened after my divorce. Life was dark, poor and sad. He brought me groceries. He knew my thoughts and with one reassuring hand on my shoulder said, “don’t do anything stupid.”
As I went from little dude to big, our relationship changed. I did not understand this. When I came home from college, my head packed with how the world needed to be, it started. My father was no longer a god, he was mortal. It wasn’t fair to hold him to a standard I developed as an infant. I wanted to put him back on the pedestal. I didn’t want him to be human like me.
Humans have issues, even Dads. He wrestled with his demons, but his family always came first. He did his best. That is all we can ever do, even when our best includes mistakes.
When I popped into the world, he had high hopes and dreams for me. Whenever he introduced me to someone at the store, his clients, a friend, anyone at all, he said with pride, “this is my son — Evan.” He said it deeper than anything else of which he was proud.
His pride became muted somewhere on my timeline of mistakes. I sometimes imagine he wished he stayed home on the day the hospital called. He said nothing about his disappointment. I had my own demons to contend with. He witnessed my struggle unable to help me. This must have been difficult for him. I needed to fail and succeed in the cycle of growing up. Disappointment may be a path to acceptance, but great moments make it easier.
Dad was a general contractor. People called him because of his honesty and excellent work. No one ever called for a deal. They paid for the best. They may have seen him working on their house, but they didn’t see him come home from work exhausted. His loud snoring on the couch till dinner. The late nights drawing up plans for how he would fix something. The mornings spent selecting only the best materials at the lumberyard. They witnessed none of that, but many of the wealthiest families gave him the key to their homes and lives.
I worked for him during and after high school. We had fun together. One July we were building a stairway down a steep bank to the beach. We both kept slipping and sliding while laughing at our predicament. At one point he stopped working. He looked at the sun dance on the waters of Puget Sound and said, “This is a great place to work.” We both laughed because maybe it was, but the job not so much. He is the best boss ever and taught me more than any of them put together. Those are my fondest memories; getting into the truck on our way to build stuff.
I eventually quit working for him at twenty-three. We didn’t have a falling out. I needed to make it on my own in the big city. I exchanged good times for a suit and tie. I don’t regret my decision, and he doesn’t fault me. I needed to experience the world, and that meant our relationship changed. The song “Cats in the Cradle” makes me cry every time I hear it; a song I wish wasn’t true.
Life continued with jobs, moves, marriage, divorce, relationships, loves, victories and holidays. Dad was always there. Maybe we were not two guys being goofy at work together, but he was my anchor. The only difference, our relationship was unclear. Did we yearn for an earlier time? Perhaps our past kept us apart? From the time I hung up my carpenter belt, until 49, neither of us understood our relationship.
At 11 am on March 4 everything changed. Mom passed away.
I arrived at the house to find him holding her hand. Pain exploded. Mom was perfectly healthy. My world went dark. I collapsed on the floor. My heart repeatedly stabbed with grief. I prayed, bargained and held her, not wanting to accept reality.
I turned to him for comfort and saw a broken man whose life ended. Half of him was gone. We looked at each other not sure how to comfort the other or ourselves.
Before I asked what happened, he began. With eyes lost in their past, he told me Mom woke that morning knowing it was her last. He prepared the usual breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and Cheerios. His gaze returned to mine as he pointed at the Cheerios and said, “Box #72” (Dad likes to number things). He busied himself getting the coffee ready when Mom sat down at the table. She told him she was dying. He grabbed the phone to call the fire department. She asked him not to, but wanted him to hold her hand.
He told her he would call me. She told him no. She sat in her chair. The chair where she had breakfast every day. The chair where she sat each holiday. She looked out the window at Puget Sound. The trees and birds they named. The world she knew. To see it all one last time. My mother left this world on her terms; holding the hand of the man she loved.
My mother and father are the most courageous people I have ever known. I don’t know if I could have filled their shoes at that moment or ever. Mom embraced death. Dad let her go.
That awful day held its beauty. Mom wanted Dad and me to be close. On the day Mom passed, we became father and son — again. If she had any dying wishes, this was probably one.
Over the next two years, we spent countless hours hanging out together. We talked about Mom. We talked about women. We talked about life. We talked about everything; perfect in our imperfection. After Mom passed, he needed me. I enjoyed every minute. It was nice to be father, son and best friends.
After a while, he saw someone from his high school. He could not stop talking about her. When he showed me her picture. He did it with a swagger. I grinned as I told him, “Dad — you did good. She is a good-looking woman.” Her eyes were like Dad’s. They held mirth and mischief. These two would have fun.
I was not surprised when he sold the house. The house he built for our family. Moving in with Pat was how we wanted to spend his life in love with her.
Dad is living again, in sin mind you. He is having fun like a kid — it is beautiful. I can’t recall ever seeing him this happy. He is alive more than anyone. Without saying a word, he reminds me, “it’s time to live.”
I wish my parents lived with as much happiness during the last fifteen years of Mom’s life. Instead, they focused their lives on dying. I remember conversations about the will and downsizing. They talked about moving into a condo and convalescent homes.
I pleaded for them to stop because they were alive and healthy. They lived with one foot in the grave. It was painful to witness. Days upon days focused on dying. I am sure it wasn’t like that all the time, but it seemed like it.
After Mom died, Dad was close too. I could feel death around him. His pain walled him off from living. Our get-togethers were life support. It terrified me I would lose him. One day my awesome Dad said, “FUCK YOU DEATH.”
Those words contain greater magic than Abracadabra. Those words Zen slapped his will to live. He made new friends. He became active. He put together his class reunion, something my Mom did for decades. That reunion also led to falling in love with Pat. The next thing I knew, he couldn’t meet me for dinner because he has plans. I smiled when he turned me down, my father was too busy living his life. I missed him and I loved it.
MyDad is the bravest person I know. He loves people and life. He is himself now. He has made peace with his demons. He no longer struggles. He shares his joy. I have learned one last lesson from the greatest teacher ever — LIVE. It is not something you can just kinda do.
I got lucky in the birth lottery. It was a million to one shot, in September 1966, that he was the man who showed up at the hospital. Not everyone is so fortunate.
Some people have bad feelings about their Dad, or their parents. People have demons. We don‘t stop loving them. They are human. They are in pain. They need to figure out stuff and sometimes they never will. In those cases, we need to detach with love.
When this happens, people can find substitutes in friends, lovers, confidants and advisors. I have Dads in my life. Men, I can turn towards, when number one Dad isn’t always available. They, like Dad, can see who I am when I can’t.
I don’t see why we need a specific day on the calendar to tell them what they mean to us? If we don’t know when we feel it when will we? That is why I wrote this.
He is my awesome Dad. At 85, he still teaches me a trick or two about life.
I am my Father’s Son.
