Catholic Knees

We can only hide for so long, before the façade of content fades. I can’t express how much I have been holding back. Read through my words and decipher your own meaning. I just need to get this off my chest.

Do you remember when you taught me how to play basketball? Well, I never wanted to learn in the first place. I only played because I wanted your attention. I wanted you to be present. Why couldn’t you do that for me when I won the writing contest in middle school and later in high school?

I know. You always came to my awards ceremonies and school events. You even came all of the way to Raleigh for my writing competition. But, you never smiled like you used to when I played ball. You never looked excited or proud of me in any of my passions. It was always about being catholic and serving your country. Anything else was just a pipe dream. Basically, it was all about you. You desecrated my dreams and destroyed my pride. All I ever wanted to do was make you proud dad.

The only time I can remember you smiling at me, or anything for that matter, was when I came back from basic training in Pendleton. You smiled, gave me a hug, a pat on the back, and for the first time in my life I felt like your son. It only took you twenty years to do that.

It was that same exact day that you kicked me out of the house. I told you the horror stories of my drill sergeant and how I spit back into his face and left the camp. I stood up for myself then as I am now. I can’t help what I’m passionate about dad. I love teaching children to learn. Not killing men I never hated, or even knew. We are compelled to do what we must do.

I’m not like you. I will never pick up a gun. I will never receive a purple star or get an honorable discharge. I will never force a life decision on my students, much less my own children. I will let them find their own way through their own choice.

That’s what life is about dad, the choices we make. If we didn’t have them, we’d be merely machines of the man. I will not stand for that. My whole life, until I was twenty, I did only exactly what you said. I wanted to make you proud. With sports, if I ever made a basket you’d say make another, now make three in a row, make four, make five. And if I messed up it was always Come on! Stop screwing it up! You’re not trying hard enough!  It was never Almost, good job, or try again. YOU ALWAYS WANTED BETTER!

Well, we both know, I’m thirty-two and you’re fifty-eight, and neither one of us is going to make into the NBA. When Ben, my son who still wants to meet his grandfather, gets old enough to play sports, I will let him choose. He will hear nothing but encouraging and supporting words that seemed absent in my life.

I am writing you this because of our talk last night. I hate that these circumstances bring forth this conversation. I wish it wasn’t like this dad, but I need to tell you everything. What you said to me helped me more than you could ever imagine. I don’t know whether it’s the medicine or what, but when you said I’ve made some mistakes in my life, but pushing you too hard as a youth will always be my deepest regret. Now, I know that whatever you want to be, I’ll be proud of you.

I wanted to hug you through the phone. I cried last night. I had forgotten, myself, how much I had bottled up over the years. I remember you taking us to Mass every Sunday morning. I hated it. I felt nothing. I didn’t understand it. Though, that doesn’t mean I didn’t try. I even tried to attend the local Catholic Church here. I’m sorry, I just don’t feel religiously moved in a Catholic Church.

There are times when I truly believe in “Defiance, defines us.” Maybe that’s why I wanted to be so different from you. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because your personality made me feel like you were forcing me to come with you.

I have a secret I’ve wanted to tell you. All of the times when I couldn’t live up to your expectations, I hurt myself. It wasn’t until I was twenty, when I stood up to you that day at the dinner table, that I stopped hurting myself.

The first time it happened was in my high school basketball tryouts. I looked at the list, not for me, but for you, and my name wasn’t there. I didn’t even want to go home. I started to make plans about staying afterschool. Maybe you would think I was at practice, but then a game would come and you would know. It happened every time I thought you wouldn’t be proud of me. It was like the optimistic play in my head of you giving me a pat on the back, vanished with my dignity.

I thought that if I could get your attention, maybe you’d open up to me. Maybe you’d ask me what was wrong. Maybe you’d care about my life. Instead, you never said anything.

I wanted to tell you this because it’s been eating me up inside. When I walked away from you at dinner that night, I decided that I wasn’t ever going to be good enough for you. I even had thoughts about what you would do if I actually killed myself.

I moved away from you and found a place where I not only feel at home, but I feel liberated from sure self-destruction. I found a church, later a college, and then a teaching job; of course my wife, and more importantly, I found something else I’d been missing my entire life--Happiness through Christ.

Last night, when I told you I had found God through a Baptist Church, you said Son, as long as you’re in some denomination of Christianity and you have some kind of belief in God, I want to support you.

As I write this down, I want you to know that a tear drop just landed on the “U” in support. I love you dad. The rest I want to tell you in person.

Love,

Chad.

Normally, I would join the group, boxing in an impatient driver, but today was different. I had a place to be. It was a much needed visit to see my father. Not only did I want him to read my letter, I also had something to say to him.

I kept the speed of my car five over. No need to go faster, no need to go slower, I just needed to get to my point B destination. Ben was with me fast asleep in his car seat. Unfortunately, Becky had to work late, planning with the grade level teachers. She said she’d meet us shortly after she finished.

When I pulled up to the parking space right in front of the building, I took a deep breath trying to gain confidence. I carried Ben, even though he could walk now. He was tired. A whole day of school and then a four hour car ride will put any three year old to sleep.

I walked through the doors, up the stairs, and to his bedroom. He was sleeping. He looked terrible, like he’d been fasting for weeks. His face sunk into the pillows. The constant ticking of the heart rate monitor only allowed seconds of freedom. Freedom of not feeling like he was just a machine in the hospital.

I put Ben down on the sofa. He was awake, but not quite conscious.

Picking up my dad’s hand seemed to feel like I was lifting a fragile object. His body felt cold.

“Dad?”

He moved a little. Gosh dad, your skin wrinkled up fast in twelve years.

“I’m here dad.”

His eyes opened up slowly.

“Hey dad.” I whispered.

“Son.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Nothing I can’t handle boy.”

“I know dad.”

He laughed and began to cough hysterically. There was nothing I could do to make him stop. I felt powerless.

“How are they treating you?”

He slowed down his cough and regained his composure.

“You know son, I can do this stuff on my own. It’s your mother who thinks I can’t do it.”

“She’s here?”

“Yes. Only because she’s in my will.”

“No dad. If that was the case, she’d put a pillow over your head right now.”

I laughed and my dad only grinned.

We talked about recent life events, being out of the hospital, my mom coming back into his life, or so he thought. I didn’t want to crush the only sanguinity he had left about his life. He had terminal cancer. I asked him what kind and he said the kind that puts a body at constant war with itself. Everything was war and peace with him. But, it was true. His entire body was at war with cancer. It spread through all major organs. Their only medicine now was keeping him comfortable.

I felt like we had some much more to talk about. Twelve years, at this age, seemed like a lifetime. Inside I was crying every ounce of tear I could. I only had a couple days left with my dad. Ben woke up for a few minutes and I introduced him to his grandfather. My dad smiled.

When Ben went back to the couch, my dad and I talked about our conversation last night. I gave him the letter and he read it word for word. It was the first time my dad had ever cried in front of me.

He said, “Son, look at you now. You should be proud of yourself. All of your awards and finishing something I could never do, college, your beautiful wife, your son. I would be proud of you even without any of that stuff. I am proud of you because you are my son.”

There was a therapeutic cry we shared on May 19^th, 2005. I will always remember that date. I held my dad’s hand one last time. He hugged me, gave me a pat on the back, and said, “I love you son. I couldn’t ask for a better one.”

I cried back, “You did a good job dad. I love you.”

My father passed away. Holding my hands, he didn’t leave this earth alone. He left with his son right next to him and a smile on his face. My dad was proud of me. He had his own way of showing it. God gave me the power to become stronger through my life’s hardships. God gave my dad an extra day so I could say goodbye. I love you dad.