A Bollerud Story: The Visit

We communicated with our eyes. The last time I saw my dad, Parkinson's disease had taken everything from him except his eyes. He couldn't move, he could barely talk but he was all there. First thing he said to me was "You got fat." I laughed. "Yes, Dad, I guess I did."

He couldn't talk to us, his children as we sat around the table. My mom would flit in and out nervously "to smoke." She told me later, eventhough she was there every day to jerk a knot in the nurse's ass--it was never easy to see dad that way.

The eyes said everything. I smiled and they smiled back. I made a joke about dad going to "come to Jesus" meetings at chapel, and those eyes turned cold like they did when I was in trouble as a kid. When the nurse came in and called him "Hanky Panky" they rolled and endured--"Oh he loves it when I call him that." The eyes said, "No, I don't, you moron."

Since dad couldn't speak, I spoke for him. I told stories to make him laugh, like when he walking me down the aisle during my wedding, he was whispering under his breath, "Left, Right, Left, Right" Just like I was one of his recruits. His eyes got wide and he started laughing then coughing. And I stopped talking.

I could tell dad wanted to talk. He was a great storyteller. He would try but I couldn't hear anything come out. I gave him a pen and paper but he couldn't hold it to write. Then he slowly tried to trace letters on the table. We all stared at that finger slowly moving over and over. By that time, mercifully, my mom said it was time for dad to eat and we should leave. I hugged him but I couldn't make it out the door before I burst into tears.

I wondered, what did dad want to say to me? "I love you?" "I'm proud of you?" Later that week, I called mom and asked her. "Oh, it was something about Star Trek."

Happy Fathers Day Dad, hope they throw a nice one in the next world!