I’m not sure how much time had passed when I awoke next, but Mama was there telling me my Daddy was here at the hospital to see me. She asked me if I would like to see him. Mama and Daddy had been divorced for 7 years. I had not seen my father for a very long time. He lived in a different town and he was pretty much removed from our lives. I learned later that this was actually his second visit to the hospital. I was unaware of our first reunion.
So now, my father was here again. I was stunned, yet happy. ‘Daddy! My Daddy’s here!’ my inner-child shouted out. I smiled. But I knew by the fact that he was even there, that my condition had to be life-threatening. We just never saw him. It made me sad and fearful at this realization. But I shook my head yes, indicating that I wanted to see my father, and Mama disappeared to go get him.
I tried to sit up in bed, excited and nervous at the same time. I loved the return of my prodigal father, and was glad he had come to see me. I just wished he had shown Mama and us kids that we were more important than his bottles of Thunderbird Wine.
Soon, Daddy sauntered into the room with a shuffle and hop. He was wearing a striped t-shirt and a pair of ratty jeans. He also had on a blue and white striped denim conductor’s hat that he had scrunched down on his head to hide his receding hairline. His fine blond hair was shoulder length now and slightly greasy. His glasses were shaded, but I could see his eyes behind them. They looked a little red, as usual. Hanging from his famously large ears, which Grammie Lee used to tape back to his head when he was a child in hopes to train them to stay back, was a doctor’s mask that covered his mouth.
The story was that Daddy had a cold and they made him wear a mask. But, I suspect he probably had reeked of alcohol, which would have made the nurses and doctors make him wear the mask. He liked wearing the mask about as much as he liked wearing a motorcycle helmet when riding his Harley. He reluctantly obliged.
Daddy seemed to be talking to me. I could see his face-mask move up and down and from side to side as he spoke. But I couldn’t hear him talk. I could see him raise his eyebrows indicating that he was asking me questions, and I could see him laugh, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I finally managed to tell him in a frog-like croak that I couldn’t hear him. Daddy gave a hearty laugh, mumbled a few words, ripped off his hospital mask, and clearly said, “Can you hear me now?”
I wanted to laugh and cry all at once. His theatrical removal of his mask and obvious expletives made me chuckle, but the fact was, I could not hear him. I strained my neck and turned my ear closer to him, hoping he would talk louder. He sat down in a chair near my bedside, pulled himself closer, blinked a couple of times and said again more slowly and with a more somber expression, “Can you hear me now?” Realizing I was reading his lips and in fact, not hearing him, I shook my head ‘no.’
This must have been confusing for my dad because I was answering his question, but my answer was a paradox. Perhaps with some disbelief, my father let out a stress laugh. Then he touched my arm gently and just smiled.
Next, he looked around the room, picked up an empty styrofoam cup laying on my bedside table, and a pencil from my guest book, which Mama had bought at one point to document all my visitors. Then, Daddy began to doodle on this cup. He drew a funny face and showed it to me, and I chuckled. Then he drew another. He seemed to be humming or singing while he doodled, as his foot shook in that familiar rhythm he used to have when playing his guitar. Occasionally, he would look up at me to see if I was still alert. It was hard for me to focus at times. I was still very medicated and fatigued.
He stayed with me a while longer in silence as I drifted in and out. Then he picked up my guest book and turned it to the very last page and began to write. He wrote me a long note and told me to read it later. He mumbled something about having “been to the dark side of the moon” himself, as he let out a sad, little chuckle. Then he pointed up at the ceiling, and looked me right in the eyes. He spoke slowly so I could read his lips.
“The man upstairs is watchin’ out for you, Poot. He loves you and so do I. Remember that no matter what.”
Then he leaned in to kiss me goodbye. I could still smell the familiar sour scent of Thunderbird Wine, and I could see tears in his already reddened eyes. I sadly watched him leave the room, still clutching the face mask in his fist, and wondered if I would ever see him again.
As I lay there in silence, and doubt, I was uncertain if it was really me who had problems hearing, or if my dad was just sick or drunk, and not able to speak clearly. It was easier to lay in denial and blame Daddy than to accept the possibility that my hearing was gone.
