Andy's Choice
Let's call it an addendum to my previous post.
About a week has gone by since I wrote it.
And in that week, my mom has since joined the crusade to figure out what the hell is going on with my dad. Actually, it's not so much trying to figure out what's going on with him as it is to keep it from interfering with me.
To date, I haven't spoken to my dad in 9 years.
I think the last real conversation we had was back when I was going under the knife to get a small sample of brain tumor extracted from my brain stem to find out whether I had six months to live or 60.
Long story short, to his credit, he showed up, even pledging that he would be there the entire time. Well, the day before the surgery, I had a pre-op screening where the I had little pieces of my scalp shaved and then little sticky sensors placed in the newly shorn spot. Apparently this helps my docs not cut the wrong pieces out. Whatever. After the appointment, I flat out lose it; the stress and enormity of the situation came to a head and I let the world know by storming out of the hospital and breaking one of those automatic doors (hey, it's not my fault they close so quickly).
In the ensuing rant, I started peeling those little sensors off of my head and was screaming that I wasn't going through with it. Of course, I didn't mean it. Well, maybe I did. But I knew in my heart that I would be going back. Well, I left on a bus and took off for a few hours, leaving my mom and dad in what I have to assume was one of the most painfully awkward silences ever recorded.
Well, my dad took it to heart and immediately changed his departure ticket to the following morning. You know, the one that involved copious amounts of anesthesia and bone saws and honed scalpel blades.
Of course, I was pretty much devastated to learn that he was leaving, especially since I hadn't seen him for a while. But I nodded in agreement. After all, I did say that I wasn't going through with it. In the middle of the street. Outside of the hospital. With anxious patients and nervous security guards looking on. It was all very subtle. How else was he supposed to know I didn't really mean it?
Well, he leaves, they cut, they extract, I wake up four or five days later.
And he was the first person I called for in my haze.
Fast forward to this past weekend. My mom tracks him down, explains he needs to call us because something's going wrong. He calls my house, Jaime answers, and he tells her he'll take care of everything.
He never asks to speak to me.
Never asks about me.
Jaime tells him he's about to be a grandfather.
He tells her that's wonderful.
And now, a week later, I get an email. It basically summarizes that situation and that it has nothing to do with me.
Oh, and congratulations on December 11th.
So, the question is, do I write back or not? Do I open the door only to have him shut it when it's most convenient? Or, do I give him a little taste of his own medicine, and let him wonder what could have been for the next 9 years?
About a week has gone by since I wrote it.
And in that week, my mom has since joined the crusade to figure out what the hell is going on with my dad. Actually, it's not so much trying to figure out what's going on with him as it is to keep it from interfering with me.
To date, I haven't spoken to my dad in 9 years.
I think the last real conversation we had was back when I was going under the knife to get a small sample of brain tumor extracted from my brain stem to find out whether I had six months to live or 60.
Long story short, to his credit, he showed up, even pledging that he would be there the entire time. Well, the day before the surgery, I had a pre-op screening where the I had little pieces of my scalp shaved and then little sticky sensors placed in the newly shorn spot. Apparently this helps my docs not cut the wrong pieces out. Whatever. After the appointment, I flat out lose it; the stress and enormity of the situation came to a head and I let the world know by storming out of the hospital and breaking one of those automatic doors (hey, it's not my fault they close so quickly).
In the ensuing rant, I started peeling those little sensors off of my head and was screaming that I wasn't going through with it. Of course, I didn't mean it. Well, maybe I did. But I knew in my heart that I would be going back. Well, I left on a bus and took off for a few hours, leaving my mom and dad in what I have to assume was one of the most painfully awkward silences ever recorded.
Well, my dad took it to heart and immediately changed his departure ticket to the following morning. You know, the one that involved copious amounts of anesthesia and bone saws and honed scalpel blades.
Of course, I was pretty much devastated to learn that he was leaving, especially since I hadn't seen him for a while. But I nodded in agreement. After all, I did say that I wasn't going through with it. In the middle of the street. Outside of the hospital. With anxious patients and nervous security guards looking on. It was all very subtle. How else was he supposed to know I didn't really mean it?
Well, he leaves, they cut, they extract, I wake up four or five days later.
And he was the first person I called for in my haze.
Fast forward to this past weekend. My mom tracks him down, explains he needs to call us because something's going wrong. He calls my house, Jaime answers, and he tells her he'll take care of everything.
He never asks to speak to me.
Never asks about me.
Jaime tells him he's about to be a grandfather.
He tells her that's wonderful.
And now, a week later, I get an email. It basically summarizes that situation and that it has nothing to do with me.
Oh, and congratulations on December 11th.
So, the question is, do I write back or not? Do I open the door only to have him shut it when it's most convenient? Or, do I give him a little taste of his own medicine, and let him wonder what could have been for the next 9 years?
posted by The Haiku Review at 10:07 AM
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