My sister and I were raised by our Mom. She loved, taught, sang, laughed, chauffered, fed, hugged, worried, rejoiced, disciplined, bought, made... She parented.
And though I am sure my Father caused her endless frustration, she did not allow his daughters to hate him.
"You shouldn't speak to your Dad that way. He loves you."
"Do you love him?"
"Yes. Because he helped me make you."
As adults, my sister and I made the decision to have a relationship with him. We have learned to enjoy the time we have with him inspite of his sporadic presence during our childhood. He is an intelligent quirky man. He was a French professor for over 30 years, he ran a bartending school and owned a cleaning service. He was not one to show much emotion, but was generous with his praise. He is an excellent cook, an avid vegetable gardener, and, in his retirement, he has mastered the game of pool.
Our infrequent childhood conversations and visits with him were filled with the following mantras:
Him: "Who are the prettiest girls in the world?"
Us: "Kilah and Nza."
Him: "That's right!"
Us: "We won..., made..., achieved.... etc...."
Him: "That's great Kilah Wilah/Nza Pinza. Makes my toes tingle!"
I carry his dark skin, his wiry hair, his slanted handwriting, a few of his mannerisms and his mother's maiden name.
It was with him that I ate my first (and last) raw egg, learned to pickle cucumbers (a process which I have long since forgotten), got my first taste of the French language he adores, and learned my first reggae dance steps. He is frugal, into healthy lifestyles and cares little about material goods. He loves music, languages and African sculpture. In his own way, he also loves his daughters. He speaks deliberately and does not waiver once a decision has been made. He is not easily affected.
And now he is sick.
I learned of his diagnosis a few days before I left and last week's surgery two days before it occured. He waited until the last minute to tell me of his diagnosis and surgery on purpose.
Him: "I've just come in from the garden so I wanted to call and let you know that my surgery is the day after tomorrow."
Me: "Why didn't you tell me before? I might have been able to be there. And why are you in the garden this late at night?"
Him: "That's why I didn't tell you. And I had to get my collards in the ground."
He then went on to explain, in explicit detail, the information concerning his prognosis. In the months between his diagnosis and his surgery, he had researched, compared and questioned. He educated himself on every possible facet of his illness, treatment options, side effects and longevity.
As I listened to him detail everything from the growth pattern of his tumor to the place where the initial incision would be made, I realized that my Dad had armed himself with a plethora of information because he is scared. Part of his defense is knowing the twists and turns of his disease before he reaches them. He is not a fan of surprises.
His daughter shares that trait with him.
He is back home now, healing, resting and awaiting more tests and treatment. He is being well cared for. I spoke with him briefly and he explained his goal of eating more solid foods before he faded. For the first time my tall, lean, stoic Father sounded old.
And his daughter was not prepared.
I'll keep your father in my prayers
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