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Herb Benham: Dear ol' dad not on his last legs — at least for today
| Saturday, May 24 2008 11:13 AM
Last Updated: Friday, May 23 2008 3:22 PM
Herbie called recently and maybe I had something in my throat. My voice might have been husky in a way that it usually isn’t. It may have bordered on hoarse.
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“Dad, you don’t sound very good,” he said. “Are you all right?”
I did an inventory check. I was probably tired but everyone was tired. They were either tired or they were on their way to being tired. If they weren’t tired, they wouldn’t be not-tired for long.
“I’m feeling fine Herbie,” I said, trying to put some extra oomph in my voice.
Such is the reality of long-distance conversations. Long-distance relationships, too.
You spend a certain amount of time reading between the lines. He says he’s fine, but he doesn’t sound fine.
I knew what Herbie was doing. I knew what he was doing because I do the same thing with my father. I call and ask him how he’s doing because fathers have this habit of up and dying on you, then you have a dead dad and what in the heck are you going to do with that?
When you call your father, you are hoping for good news at the same time that you are trying to detect cracks in the foundation. If the news is good and the foundation solid, then you might live to have another conversation.
If things sound ragged on the other end, then you have another decision to make: He doesn’t sound good. How long does he have? Should I jump in my car and come home right now before he takes his last breath or can I eat breakfast first?
I’d hate to be halfway through my carton of Greek yogurt and then take a call from the triage nurse. She’ll wonder what kind of son I am and I’ll be staring forlornly at the two strips of bacon that I’ll never eat, and if I do, will never taste good again.
This sort of attention to detail also extends to face-to-face visits. Children look at their parents as if they are bowls of ice cream on a warm day. It’s just a matter of time before they melt.
Doesn’t my dad realize he’s already told me that story?
Yes, maybe he does. Maybe he thinks it’s such a good story that his children could bear to hear it twice. Or maybe three times.
He’s sure wrinkled. Was he that wrinkled last time? And why are his eyes watering all the time. Is there a sad movie playing inside his head?
He’s smaller. He used to tower over me. Now, he doesn’t come up to my nose.
Rarely does a parent look better or sound better than he or she did before. Last time was bad. This time is worse.
We’re ice cream, we melt. Sometimes quicker than we want.
I assured Herbie that I had a decent chance of living through the day. He could put his car keys down. Finish his breakfast.
I’d be well by lunch.
Opinions expressed are those of Herb Benham, not The Californian.