Back pain. That's how it started. The man who didn't do doctors or medicine or pain, was being cut down, little by little, day by day, by back pain. Painkillers, heat packs, physical therapy, x-rays and MRIs: everyday something new was added, something else mentioned, in his quest to rid his life of that fucking back pain. We learned all this by phone, followed along with daily calls, listened as he checked off the appointments and pills and "if this doesn't work, we'll try this..." lines from all the doctors he was seeing. Over the phone, he sounded tired, but he didn't sound sick. Over the phone, he looked fine.
He taught me how to drive. How to bait a hook, hook a fish, reel it in, and clean it. He taught me about dirt. And trees. And animals and rocks and books. He taught me how to cook, and taste, and love food. He taught me how to sharpen my knives. Do you realize the importance of that? He taught me everything I needed to know, and everything I didn't.
I was newly pregnant. Weeks, only. We made a plan to drive down to see my dad, help him in whatever way he needed (he mentioned not being able to get out much, needing groceries to be bought and heavy things to be lifted), cooking and cleaning and whatever needed to be done. We told ourselves he just needed a little help until he got better, until the doctors fixed his back. We didn't know. With my hand over my belly, we walked into the house, and my world caved in. It was January 15, 2010.
He laughed with his whole self. At everything. Sometimes he would call, and it would be 5 minutes before he could even get a word out. And he always called when he saw or heard something funny, always. He told a joke better than anyone I know, and he never told a joke the same way twice. I have so many stored in my mind, his jokes, his punch lines, but they're incomplete. My memories of him telling the jokes are pure and bright and perfect, but I couldn't tell one now. For the best probably. I can't tell a joke like my dad.
He was at another doctors office when we arrived, so my reaction to what we found inside was raw and immediate and unedited. I knew the second my eyes glanced the filth he was living in, the piles of dishes covered in day and week old food that hadn't been touched, the smell of rot coming from the kitchen, the messes his beloved cats and dog had made all over the house: something was horribly, horribly wrong. He was telling us what he needed us to hear, what he wanted us to know. He wasn't telling us his truth. To this day, I wonder if he told it to himself. I called my sister, told her that something was really wrong, that what I was looking at was more than just back pain. And then the car he was riding in pulled up, and the door opened, and a man I didn't recognize got out and said, "hi baby", and I knew. I knew.
He nearly lost us, and himself, long ago. He wore his sobriety proudly, but never boasted. He collected his coins, for all the years he attended meetings, and carried his very first one in his wallet, for so long that it rubbed a circle through the leather. I was so proud of him, so proud to be his.
He had lost probably 40 pounds in 2 months. His hair was greasy and hung lifeless in his face, days and days since it had been washed last. He walked with a stoop, shortening his tall frame by 4 inches. His skin. Oh my god, his skin. A lifetime of working outdoors had given him a dark, natural bronze tone, but that was no more. I looked down at my feet to keep from fainting when I saw that he was yellow. Yellow. I knew what yellow skin meant. I knew what that meant. We helped him inside, and I called my sister, and in between panicked sobs, managed to tell her to get here, she needed to be here, I needed her here. I called my mom, despite their having been divorced for 10 years. I told her what I saw, and she came. And she saw. We talked to my dad, cleaned,
