My Dad Needs A Blog

I’ve been trying to get my Dad to start a blog for awhile now.  Or at least guest-post on here.

Dad needs to blog for lots of reasons.  The main one being, dude is too verbose for Facebook.  Today, he posted this:

32 years ago today – 31.03.81 @ 12:50 local time in Dallas, Texas – life changed forever. It was the happiest day of my life. After two weeks of very early and difficult labour, my wife and I finally made into the delivery room for a C-Section. It’s a girl, the doctors said. For a fleeting moment I was slightly disappointed; I thought I had wanted a boy. A few moments later, a nurse said, “Well, Dad, you’re going to be doing a lot of this so you better get used to it,” as she handed me a tiny 3lb 12oz wrinkled bundle of pure love, joy, beauty and peace named Lorna Karen Duff. She looked like a wee organ grinder’s monkey because she had a tiny Dixie Cup taped askew on her head to keep her from pulling out her IV and she fit quite snugly into my left hand. We were bonded together instantly and I really, truly believed that even then, in those very first moments, we understood one another completely. 32 years later I still do.

That little Read More… line that showed up on his post made me cry.  Because that’s me.  And that’s my Dad.

He needs a blog, right?  How many of you would read it?

My Dad, sometime before I showed up. We have the same happy face.

It’s Not A Tie

When I was a kid, and Father’s Day or his birthday rolled around, I would buy my Dad a tie.   Or a wallet.  I wasn’t very creative back then.  At Christmas, people would get something from the craft-fair at school.  Nothing with glue or dried macaroni on it, because I thought that was a waste of food.  But if my Grandparents needed a magnet or a bookmark with a purple tassel on it, they knew I would hook them up at Christmas.

The big decision for my Dad was whether the tie would have stripes or zigzags on it.  Or how many photo slots would be in the wallet.  Would this year’s shirt have one of those little green alligators on it?  Who knew?  Ask Grandma.

My father doesn’t like surprises.  Back then he would use sneaky tactics such as the Alphabet Game to find out what I saved up my allowance to buy him.

‘Does it begin with a T?’

I looked at him sideways.  Because I could.  ‘Yes.’

‘Is it tiger?’

‘Yes, Daddy.  I broke into the Zoo and got you a tiger.  Because six year-olds can do that.  Real guesses, please.’

‘Is it a tie?’

‘Yes!  How did you know?  Oh, no.  Now you know.  I’ll have to switch it for a wallet.’

This happened every year.  One year, I was particularly devastated.  I had kept THE SECRET for two whole days.

Since he knew about the tie, I also got him a heart sticker.  Which he put on the dashboard of his Blazer.  I have never been a hearts and flowers kind of girl, but I loved that heart.

These days, I ask for a list of books he wants to read.  One year I found him a not-so-tiny model car.  And the year I surprised him with The Sopranos box set, Sarge and I watched it first.

I’ve always known it’s not about the stuff.  I like gifts people will appreciate.

For the past few weeks I’ve been going to spend Tuesdays with Dad.  Watching old movies or tennis after his radiation.  I’ve always loved hanging out with my Dad.  I appreciated him before he got cancer, and I still do.  I cherish all my time with him.  But I wish we didn’t have to share this time with 24 different medications.  And even though this stuff will make him better in the long run, I wish he didn’t have to take it in the first place.

The only thing I want to give Dad for his birthday in a few weeks is, ‘Dad, you are cancer-free.’  That and a six-month supply of his favourite rice pudding, as it’s the only thing he can eat right now.

That’s it.  And it’s not a tie.

Well, there is one more thing I’d like to give him.  I figure Sarge and I can work on that next year.

Proof that Dad and I have kept up the sappy-but-still-true magnet tradition.

From My Heart To My Toes

Sarge’s eye-view.

Last Saturday, Sarge and I got up early to see our wedding venue decked out for a wedding.  The sun was out and I could picture next year, our people in that room.   ‘And we’ll announce you from here,’ said the events planner person.  And I cried.

We headed toward breakfast and I wondered again why I order pancakes anywhere that isn’t my Dad’s house.  Sarge finished them off for me, and I made him shoot some cherry blossoms on the way to a coffee-shop, where I drank coffee, read David Sedaris and eavesdropped on some tourists.  I couldn’t help it.  They were loud.

We went home and had dumplings while watching Manhattan.  Life is good.  I said so on Facebook.

Dad and Anne picked us up on Sunday and we went to the bridal shop so I could pet my dress.  It was hidden in the back of the car before Sarge came out of hiding.

We take them back to the venue; Dad sits at the top of the room.  Has a moment.  ‘Well done,’ he says.  ‘It’ll be a beautiful day.’

We have a late lunch, and are the last to leave the cafe.

‘Want to come up for coffee?  We can kill some zombies for you.’

I expect Dad to say no, but we all troop up to the flat.  This is Interesting, because they usually just go home.

Dad is on the couch, Anne is next to him.  I’m parked in front of the books, Sarge next to me.  ‘I have some news,’ Dad says in his This Is Interesting/Sit Down voice.

‘What?’  I actually gripped the frame of my chair.

‘Now…’

‘What?,’ I say.

‘I’ll definitely fit into my kilt for the wedding, that’s the good news.’

He explained how he’d had a sore throat and then there was a lump.   And he’d gone to the doctor and had to wait for results and I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense because all I heard was cancer.

And then Dad said, ‘Please don’t break because if you do, I will.’

Anne is saying he’ll be alright and Sarge is trying to hold me and forgive me but I’m pushing him away, because I’m trying to focus on what Dad’s saying.  Because it doesn’t make sense.

‘Once they get it it’s gone, and it isn’t going anywhere else, and if you moved up the wedding I wouldn’t enjoy it, so next year is fine, better even,’ he said.  ‘I want four whole hours for my speech at the wedding and I’d like to name all my Grandchildren, thank you.’

He’ll have to shave his beard and he’s on morphine with more energy than ever because his chronic back pain is gone.  His diabetes and hypertension will go away.  ‘Maybe this is my next lesson,’ he said.  ‘This’ll mean I’m healthier in the long run.  It’ll give me my life back.  Chemo is my liposuction.’

‘It’s a pain in the ass way to do it, though.’   I said.

‘Actually it’s a pain in the neck, sweetie.’  He hugged me.  And then I broke.

After they left, Sarge asked how I was doing.  ‘I can’t feel anything from my heart to my toes,’ I sad.

I get up the next day.  And I’m surprised the world is still happening.  I stay off the computer in order to avoid Google.  I try to write in a journal Dad gave me.  But there are no words.   If I had any, I would say that I know cancer is treatable, or else there wouldn’t be treatment.  After the treatment, people get better.  People laugh and go to weddings and have Grandchildren.

People get through it.  But this is my father, my best friend.  He has to go through this.  My Dad will get better.  We just have to get there.

On Thursday, I went to the cancer centre and met one of his nurses.  The place was nicer than at least one of the wedding venues Sarge and I looked at.  I asked questions and cried and hugged a stranger.  But she isn’t, really.  She’s one of the people looking after Dad, and that makes her awesome.

And because I’m me, I got stuck in the bathroom.  To make it homey, they put a rug in there.  It got caught in the wheels and came with me through the door, along with a basket of towels and a small table.

I backed out of the room.  ‘Hey you guys, I’m stuck.’  Sarge reached me first, and then laughed and said to Dad, ‘oh, you gotta see this.’

My Dad’s laugh is the same as always.

He’ll be in remission by October which also marks three years of me and Sarge.  Stellar month.  We’ll get there.

My mission today is to find Dad a beard hat.

Dad and me. The last time he was without a beard.

A Birthday Card From Dad

And click here to see the second thing to make me cry happy tears today!

Thanks, Dad.

Proof of Hat. Because Dad Said So.

And so, I’m friends with my Dad.  On Facebook and in real life.  After I posted my post yesterday, he posted this on Facebook:

Me, St. James Park, London,1985, age 4 (not 8)

 

It pays to be friends with your Dad, people.  It means a lot.  It means, amongst many other things, that any baby picture of you he decides to share will be of the non-embarrassing sort.  You hope.

I love you, Dad.

A Little Friendly Competition

And so, I’m ‘doing’ NaNoWriMo this year. We have always had a strange relationship. Past attempts have seen me bang out 20,000 words and then well, edit them. Note to self and others: Don’t. Do. That. I have a penchant for abandoning projects in favour of others which I think ‘sound better’, and I don’t finish anything. Except really short stories or ‘novel excerpts’. Novel excerpts are short stories that wouldn’t shut up.

See, I don’t like writing that sounds like writing. The minute I’m aware of words on the page, I stop and write another scene playing out in my head. I have a lot of computer files and notebooks and thoughts. Most are non-sequential. Really. Try having a conversation with me.

This year, I promised myself, and Sarge, and my Dad that I would see one single novel to the end of its first draft. Because everyone is fed up with the frustrated writer. I’d just love to be a writer.

First, I said I’d hit 2k a day. Not so much. Then, because my brain goes faster than my typing speed, I thought I’d dictate the thing. Not so much. Last week, I just parked it and started typing. And the phone rang.

It was my Dad. And this was the conversation:

Dad: You may be interested to know I am writing a novel. (That’s how my Dad speaks. I kinda love it.)

Me: Really? Cool!

(He tells me about his novel…)

Me: Really? Cool! (Inside: Aw, shit. Really? For real, really? I know we’re psychically linked, but this is like, ridiculous…this whole line of thought took 5 seconds. I told you my brain works fast.) Well, Daddy, you’re not gonna believe this, but…(I share my plot.)

Dad: Oh. Well. Every book is different. Good luck! (I’m paraphrasing. Or something.)

I couldn’t write any more that afternoon. Because my mother called.

And when Sarge arrived home I was writing in actual notebook.

I told him about the conversations with my parents. And then the plot of my book.

‘Oh. That’s basically your Dad’s book. But not.’

‘This is what I’m saying,’ I said

‘Well. Every book is different.’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Would you be upset if your Dad finished his book before you finished yours?’

‘No, I’d be happy. Having said that, shut your pretty mouth.’

What I have now is a book that sits at 5,861 words. I also have a supportive boyfriend who keeps plying me with gingerbread lattes, new notebooks and other things. And a father who is writing a book, which may or may not compliment my own. The only way to find out is to finish it.

A note to my Dad, and anyone else who may be writing a book: Please don’t stop. And I won’t, either. Back to it.

Back before the Word Wars...