While my father related this page in his life to me, I observed yesteryear's emotion writing itself all over his expressive face:
'No way could I believe what I'd just heard...
Lisa had fallen ill—and died. Unable to fathom the impossibility of a person, as vibrantly alive as Lisa, taking sick and dying, so unexpectedly, I stood there, speechless. Horrified'
At that, my dad was quiet while his mind churned with emotion that stirred my own. Then reclaiming control, he went on—and knowing my father to be a die hard romantic—I had no problem picturing my twenty-three year old father's spontaneous response to such catastrophic news:
'I bust out crying, and so did Lisa's father.'
After pausing for several seconds, Dad went on to decribe two men, who'd been at odds, embracing as naturally as if they'd been father and son. After a bit, when nothing was left to say, the door closed, leaving Jack—whose brain, reeling with shock, had refused to absorb the fact of Lisa's death—alone with his grief.
Later, when his initial shock had passed and his brain began to semi-function, my father gained a measure of solace from knowing that his sweetheart had loved him above all others and that Lisa had felt secure about her place in his heart when she'd been laid to rest. On those counts, he'd carried forward no regrets.
Though this tragic chapter in Dad's life proved laden with sorrow, I'd felt fortunate to have heard this story from my father's lips for this reason: About a decade after he and I had shared in these moments of intimate revelation, a frightening situation arose …
Dad was about eighty when he had a severe allergic reaction to shrimp. His face and tongue swelled to such alarming proportions that Mom rushed him to the ER, from which she called us, and within minutes we were at my parents' side.
In order to stop the swelling from closing Dad's windpipe and thus his airway, he'd been injected with a massive dose of steroids. Soon, Dad fell into a coma, which, understandably, terrified us until his internist arrived and allayed our fears by suggesting that coma is often induced by huge doses of steroids, and as long as his throat had not swollen shut, there was nothing to fear. Upon hearing that Dad was not in danger, nervous tension, filling the air in his private hospital room, popped like an overblown balloon, and we relaxed. A short time later, cause for alarm arose, anew.
Eyes closed, body fitful, Dad began muttering gibberish, non stop. By non stop, I mean his gibberish went on and on with barely time for Dad to catch a breath. By non stop, I mean for hours on end.
We called for the nurse, who called the internist, who calmed our fears, again. (I've learned over the years to ask for the doctor in charge instead of calling Will, who, in the past, had stopped me in my tracks by asking: Are we talking about muscles, bones or joints? If not, call 'the' doctor.) Anyway, upon hearing that hallucinating during a steroid induced coma was common place, fear relaxed, again.
Once fear had calmed, my sense of logic kicked in. In fact, I'd actually felt intrigued by the thought that Dad's non-stop mutterings had indicated an abundance of mental activity going on within his mind while he was asleep. It was as if Dad had been dreaming aloud.
So placing my ear close to my father's lips, I'd strained to hear whether any of his non stop mutterings made sense. And not only did every word make sense, but upon listening to the coherent conversation which I'd chanced to overhear, chills ran down my spine …
'No way could I believe what I'd just heard...
Lisa had fallen ill—and died. Unable to fathom the impossibility of a person, as vibrantly alive as Lisa, taking sick and dying, so unexpectedly, I stood there, speechless. Horrified'
At that, my dad was quiet while his mind churned with emotion that stirred my own. Then reclaiming control, he went on—and knowing my father to be a die hard romantic—I had no problem picturing my twenty-three year old father's spontaneous response to such catastrophic news:
'I bust out crying, and so did Lisa's father.'
After pausing for several seconds, Dad went on to decribe two men, who'd been at odds, embracing as naturally as if they'd been father and son. After a bit, when nothing was left to say, the door closed, leaving Jack—whose brain, reeling with shock, had refused to absorb the fact of Lisa's death—alone with his grief.
Later, when his initial shock had passed and his brain began to semi-function, my father gained a measure of solace from knowing that his sweetheart had loved him above all others and that Lisa had felt secure about her place in his heart when she'd been laid to rest. On those counts, he'd carried forward no regrets.
Though this tragic chapter in Dad's life proved laden with sorrow, I'd felt fortunate to have heard this story from my father's lips for this reason: About a decade after he and I had shared in these moments of intimate revelation, a frightening situation arose …
Dad was about eighty when he had a severe allergic reaction to shrimp. His face and tongue swelled to such alarming proportions that Mom rushed him to the ER, from which she called us, and within minutes we were at my parents' side.
In order to stop the swelling from closing Dad's windpipe and thus his airway, he'd been injected with a massive dose of steroids. Soon, Dad fell into a coma, which, understandably, terrified us until his internist arrived and allayed our fears by suggesting that coma is often induced by huge doses of steroids, and as long as his throat had not swollen shut, there was nothing to fear. Upon hearing that Dad was not in danger, nervous tension, filling the air in his private hospital room, popped like an overblown balloon, and we relaxed. A short time later, cause for alarm arose, anew.
Eyes closed, body fitful, Dad began muttering gibberish, non stop. By non stop, I mean his gibberish went on and on with barely time for Dad to catch a breath. By non stop, I mean for hours on end.
We called for the nurse, who called the internist, who calmed our fears, again. (I've learned over the years to ask for the doctor in charge instead of calling Will, who, in the past, had stopped me in my tracks by asking: Are we talking about muscles, bones or joints? If not, call 'the' doctor.) Anyway, upon hearing that hallucinating during a steroid induced coma was common place, fear relaxed, again.
Once fear had calmed, my sense of logic kicked in. In fact, I'd actually felt intrigued by the thought that Dad's non-stop mutterings had indicated an abundance of mental activity going on within his mind while he was asleep. It was as if Dad had been dreaming aloud.
So placing my ear close to my father's lips, I'd strained to hear whether any of his non stop mutterings made sense. And not only did every word make sense, but upon listening to the coherent conversation which I'd chanced to overhear, chills ran down my spine …
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