“Here.” 

Almost every meandering monologue my father puts you through begins with this simple word, as if it is a disclaimer of sorts for the nonlinear thought process you are going to have follow verbally, multiplied by the number of minutes you will be his audience for whatever story he is about to tell you.  For maximum effect, you need to imagine the word “here” spoken with a heavy accent.  Then bring a copy of "War and Peace", sit back and relax pretend to listen.  You are in for the one sided speech of your life.

This is not to be confused with a deep clearing of the throat, followed by “Here”.  That version means that he is struggling with trying to spit out what he is about to say and it will be followed with a circuitous explanation of why you or your sibling is currently on his disappointment or shit list.  Don't worry.  We are in constant rotation.  I am the record holder.

There are people who still refuse to believe this.  They are intent on finding out for themselves that the stove in fact is hot and that they will indeed burn their fingers if they touch it.  Sizzle, burn, ouch.  I told you so.

My father is a lawyer’s nightmare.  He cannot answer a question with a simple “yes” or “no”.  There is some back-story from three weeks (or decades) ago that will always preface his response. By the time he has taken you on the magical mystery tour that makes no sense, everyone will have forgotten what the question was.  Eyes glazed over, you leave many conversations with my father  (a term we use loosely in our family) kind of stunned, as if you have been hit on the head with a lead pipe and half your brains have been vaporized.

A phone call from my father last Friday:

I see the caller id and pick up the phone.  Instead of simply saying “hello?” into the receiver, I cut to the chase, knowing it’s him and how these conversations always begin.  It is more difficult (if not impossible) to know how (or when) these exchanges will end.

“Hi dad, how are you?”

Normal etiquette would dictate that the appropriate response to a question like this would be something to the effect of, “I’m fine, how are you?” This is something my father does not practice.  At least, not with his children.  I can’t tell you the last time my father has ever asked any of his children how they are.  He really doesn’t want to know.  A few years ago, I got rather annoyed by this lack of interest on his part and called him out on it.  That conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”

“Yeahhhhhhh.” (This is also a highly typical replacement for “hello” and is often the beginning of a message on my answering machine followed by, “Okay.  Ven you have a chance, call me back.  Bye”.  All warm and fuzzy and the like.)

“Hi dad, how are you?”

“I’m fine.”  Then a slightly pregnant pause. I think he actually knows that he is supposed to ask the same question in return, but the devil on his shoulder urges him not to.  Again.

“Here.  The reason I’m calling is” (I have forgotten that reason by now).

I lose my patience and put my foot down.  I cut my father off and do the unthinkable.  I interrupt him.

“I’m fine dad, thanks for asking.”  Now a really pregnant pause.

“Vat you try to say?”

“I’m not trying to say anything, dad.  I’m telling you that you never ask how I am.  There's a big difference.”

“Vell, Here.  I see vere dis is going.”

“Yes dad, so do I.”

End of that conversation.  

It was several months before we spoke again.

He still doesn’t ask how I am however many years later.  He never will and he’ll never know. Information is power.

My dad was visiting me a couple of weeks ago and as luck would have it, I ended up taking him to the emergency ward the night before he flew home.  He had complained of tightness and pain in his calf.  This is not a good thing, especially if you are going to be flying. I suspected a possible blood clot and visions of my father not being able to fly back up north for several weeks made me think that neither of us could survive that much time together.  Especially “Here”.

I called a friend of mine who happens to be chief of staff of the hospital and explained the situation.  It was almost 11 at night.  I begged him to do anything and everything possible to make sure the vascular surgeon on duty did whatever was necessary to get my dad on a plane the next day.  We were at the hospital until 2:30 in the morning.  They were not convinced that he had a clot, but to err on the side of caution they gave him a shot and told him he had 18 hours to travel back north and would need to get to a vascular surgeon as quickly as possible on his return to follow up and make sure nothing had changed.  Translation:  He would have to go straight back to the emergency ward up north.  THERE.  Which as far as I’m concerned, was better than “Here.”  He did end up at the emergency ward in Cleveland the following night and spent more than five hours there to be told he doesn’t have a clot. 

So back to last Friday’s conversation which is now nine days after all that.

“How are you feeling, dad?”

“Here. (I opened my pantry and refrigerator to check if I had enough supplies for the conversation I was about to hear).

“My back is keeling me.  And my knee is boddering me, too. But maybe I catch a cold on my back from da camps.  You know, last night, vas tinking maybe eez da acid in da food doesn’t agree vit me.  Ve (he and his wife) vaz at Sandy’s (my brother’s) house on Monday and Mary Flor (my sister-in-law) vaz made dat pepper salad ve used to make 35 years ago.  You remember dat von?  You used to love it.  (No I didn’t).  She made it so perfect.  I ate too much of it.  I like da pepper salad, but da acid in it don’t like me.  Now I vaz have trouble to pee and my back hurts.  I vaz up four times last night and each time vaz more pain and trouble to pee. I know you not a doctor, but vat you tink I have?”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Here.  Ven I vaz in da camps, my back was always such a cold so eez could be since I’m 15.”  

I pull in with a SWAT Team; otherwise I know where this is going. 

“Sounds like kidney problems to me, dad.  Remember that surgery you had a few years ago where they found a mass?  Maybe something else is up. Why don’t you call your urologist?  You could have kidney stones.”

“No, you not doctor,  I don’t tink so.  You see, I like da breeze and I sleep vit da vindow open for da fresh air but I vaz sveating from dees udder god damn peels I take.  I don’t vant close vindows so I tink da combination of da sweat and vind is makes trouble.  So da fourth time I vent to da bathroom I fell down and I vas tinking, vell, dees is it.  Is da end.  It took me ten minutes to be able get up and crawl back to bed. Da pain vaz so bad.  I thought I vaz a dead.”

“Whoa, are you telling me you were on the floor for ten minutes after falling and could not get up?  Where was Agi (his wife)?”

“I didn’t tell her.  She vaz sleep in udder room because she vaz on run to Pittsburgh and came home 3 o’clock in morning and I didn’t vant to vake her up.  You know, her beezniss makes more most money ven day make those courier runs in middle of night because day have only few hours to get organs to hospitals.”

“Okay, dad, back up.  Are you telling me you were in this much pain and  didn’t yell for help?  Did you tell her what happened today?”

“No.  I don’t tell a no von.  I tink is cold on my back.  I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure is vat iz.”

“Okay.  Listen really carefully to me.  If you don’t call your urologist or get to Loren’s office or the ER today, I will call Fran and Sandy (my siblings) and make sure one of them takes you there.”

“DON’T tell dem!  I gotta got to CMHA dees morning and pick up check.  I promise I call to Loren, but you have to promise not to tell Fran or Sandy.  Bye.”

We enter typical family secret territory here.

I email my sister and brother and get my brother to call Loren (his oldest friend who happens to be my dad’s GP) and suggest that they each check in with dad during the day to see if he will admit anything and which version of the truth he might (or might not) tell them.  I learn later that he tells my sister nothing and only complains to my brother that he thinks he caught a cold on his back.  Nothing about Loren.  Sandy runs interference and updates Loren with the true, Cliff’s Notes version to help him deal with my dad.

I call my dad later in the afternoon to see how he is feeling.  I hear about the aches and pains, walking with a cane that he bought 20 years ago and used for the first time that day.  A story about the produce market and some place that makes great bread.  Complaining about a fax he was waiting for at his office that the "summamabitch" didn't send.  How he is going to stay home all weekend except to go the barber and the book club at the prestigious Cleveland Skating Club and do I remember that place.  I am rolling my eyes and feeling my blood pressure mount because I am riding the crazy bus and there is no getting off.  He interjects how much money he made on some deal and then is discussing garlic and what it does to him when suddenly….

“Ho, ho, ho hold on.  I tink is Loren calling on my udder line.”  (Every time another line rings, my dad says, “Ho, ho, ho, hold on”. It has become a classic line that my sister, brother and I use on one another to crack each other up).

I spend the next 47 minutes listening to my father telling Loren about the pepper salad and asking him if he remembers how much he liked it too, the camps, the breeze in the window, visiting me in Florida, the emergency ward visit “Here” and how my doctor friend helped him get out of there quickly versus how long it took at the emergency ward in Cleveland (with which Loren is affiliated).  My dad has a mean backhand.  In that entire time, he never once mentioned that he had fallen down or the difficulty he was having with urination. 

I am yelling into my phone to try and get his attention and “live blogging” by email to my brother and sister to document that this is actually happening because even though I know they will understand this completely, many others (still) refuse to believe that my dad is this way.  Of those 47 minutes I am on “ho, ho, ho hold” I can promise you that my father probably spoke at Loren for 43 of them, if not more.

For poor Loren, there was just no getting in a word edgewise.  

 Now perhaps you understand why dialogue with my father is so difficult to write (and listen to) or even attempt to have.

You are “Here” and so am I.  

                        "Here"  36 x 48 Acrylic on Canvas Patricia A. Smith 

This is part of an ongoing series.  While it is not necessary to read other installments to follow along, if you are interested, you can read them in the order they were written:

Surviving Dad

Laugh Louder, Cry Harder

Surviving a Survivor to Budapest 

Surviving Dad:  The Boy Before the Holocaust

Many thanks to those of you who have written privately.  To maintain the integrity and intent of this series I am reading your comments and allowing them to speak for themselves without interjecting additional thoughts.  I am learning that for many of you in different ways, this is your story too.  Your support of this work is deeply appreciated.