Lucky

I am in Florida these days spending time with my father and my stepmother. He has been diagnosed with lymphoma and is about to undergo chemotherapy and I am here for the emotional support and, as things get difficult for him, to physically help out.

My dad is going to be 83 in a few weeks. He does the crossword every day and plays golf every other. Strong as an ox, sharp as a whip. A curmudgeon, yes, but a witty and charming one. An irresistible combination of traits. No wonder my sister has a Daddy complex. If I were gay, I would have one too. Hell, maybe I do anyway.

I am keeping another blog for family and friends on his convalescence. In that blog, I wrote a piece that was meant to be somewhat humorous about what it is like to spend a day with him. Good humor does not hold a punch and so I let him have it.

I wanted to add to that blog that in addition to driving me crazy, we also get along famously. At one point, I said, "You know, Dad, we have a seriously dysfunctional relationship."

"Oh really," he said, taking the bait (though perhaps just to humor me,) "Why do you say that?"

"Because I am a 47-year-old man and I enjoy hanging out with my father."

Throughout the day (amidst the very activities that I was describing as intolerable in my other blog) he and I chatted about God and the world. We exchanged our recurring nightmares and offered interpretations to each other. During another car ride from one store to the next, I told him that he saved my life when I was eighteen by proving to me that parents can be emotionally "normal" which is to say: predictable, consistent, open, and honest. At another point, after he was rambling on about something, he stopped and said, "I guess what I am trying to say is that I love you."

I should have some poignant closing to this, but I don't. I guess what I am trying to say is that I love him.