Snapdragon: A Father-Daughter Story

CHAPTER 1

The Beach

O ne of my earliest childhood memories of my father is a bewildering incident that happened at the beach. I’ve never understood it, but nevertheless, it happened and remains an unsolved mystery.

My parents had planned a fun day at the beach with just the three of us, which made me under nine years old at the time. My brother hadn’t been born yet, so I know I was young, maybe around seven.

In those days, family entertainment was simple compared to today’s expensive sports activities. For us, it was either the beach, the park, or barbecues at home. However, the beach was my favorite, and I drove my parents nuts waiting for the weekend to arrive.

Finally, Saturday came. When we arrived at the seashore, I jumped out of the car, toting my towel, while Mom and Dad unpacked the car and found a spot on the beach. Mom shook out the towels while Dad put the orange-and-blue umbrella in the sand, hoping the stake would hold it in the ground.

Before I took off, Mom greased me up with suntan lotion and dabbed white goop on my freckled nose. After getting settled, she grabbed a book and plopped down on a folding chair for the day. She had no intention of going near the water because she didn’t swim well, but she loved the beach anyway.

So it was just Dad and me. I kept bugging him to hurry up because I wanted to go swimming, but he and Mom were having a discussion. I don’t know what they were saying, but suddenly, they sounded angry. Their voices grew louder, which frightened me. I tugged at Dad’s hand to stop, but I was told to hush. My parents rarely quarreled, except about Dad’s war days.

I had no idea what they were talking about, but it had something to do with my father guarding Nazi war criminals in World War II. All I knew was that when my daddy came home from Germany, he had bad dreams.

I was getting impatient and started hopping up and down on one foot, begging to go in the water. Finally, Mom gently shooed Dad and me away, but I could tell she was upset. Dad and I headed for the water as Mom waved good-bye, telling us to be careful and have fun.

I pranced over the hot sand like a lively ballerina. I loved the feeling of sand squishing between my toes and showing off the pink polish that Mom painted on my toenails. The seagulls were squawking, and a little boy was making a sand castle with a red toy shovel. I liked the smell of the ocean as I took a big gulp of air and put my small, trusting hand into my daddy’s powerful grip before going into the water.

We started out in shallow water, but Dad kept walking out deeper into the ocean, which scared me. I was having fun until I saw how big the waves were, and then I started to cry. The water was over my head, and I was dogpaddling with Dad hanging onto me. As I was bobbing up and down, I saw a big wave coming and I screamed. A huge wall of luminous, greenish-black water loomed in front of us like a monster roaring from the depths, and Dad yelled, Duck, and hold your breath!

The frothing, white foam crashed over our heads. Dad lost his grip on me as a powerful riptide sucked me underwater. I held my breath until I thought my lungs would burst. When I opened my eyes, I saw only mucky water, and my eyes burned from the salt. My long, blond hair was tangled around my face and neck, and I felt trapped, as if caught in a spiderweb. I thought I was swimming to the top, but I was disoriented and was actually plowing through a sandbar on the bottom of the ocean.

The current smashed me to the floor of the sea and rolled me sideways, scraping me over the gravelly bottom. I couldn’t hold my breath anymore. Life was oozing out of me. That’s the last thing I remember.

I don’t know how to explain it, but it was like the ocean spat me out and rolled me into shallow water. When I touched bottom, my legs were shaking so badly I could barely walk. I staggered out of the ocean, coughing up water, gasping for air, and calling out for my daddy.

I stood on the shore, shaded my eyes from the bright sun, and looked everywhere for him, but he wasn’t there. I stood on tiptoes and looked for the orange-and-blue umbrella, but I only saw teenage girls laughing, smelled hot dogs cooking, and watched an old man throw a Frisbee to a black dog.

Then I saw the umbrella and felt safe. I ran as fast as my wobbly legs could carry me.

And then I saw him. Dad. He was sitting with Mom on a beach towel. When I reached them, I started to cry again. When Mom saw my scrapes, she jumped up and wrapped a towel around my shaking body. Honey, what’s wrong? What happened? Tell me where you’re hurt, she said nervously.

I wiggled away from her and marched in front of my father. Through tears, I screamed with all my might, Daddy, where were you? I almost drowned, and you let go of me when the big wave hit! I was scared! When I came out of the water, you were gone! I started crying again and rubbed my red eyes that still burned from the saltwater.

Dad calmly explained that he couldn’t hold onto me because the wave knocked us apart.

I know that! I said. But why did you leave me in the ocean? I continued glaring at him, but he said nothing. My parents argued about this, but I don’t remember what was said. I’m convinced that Mom didn’t know anything, as she was sitting too far back to see us in the water and had continued to read until Dad came back without me. I have no idea what he told her, but that day was never discussed again.

In my young mind, I thought my daddy was stronger and safer than the ocean, and I trusted him to help me. Even as a kid, I didn’t understand why I had to look for him, why he didn’t try to find me. Did he see another kid bobbing around in the ocean and think it was me?

Dad was never abusive and never hurt me, but after that day, I felt like I was invisible to him. It’s funny, but that is the last time I remember calling him Daddy too. He was my dad, but the close feeling I had with him and my trust in him was gone.

In 1957, we had a new addition to the family, my brother Brian. I loved having a baby brother and learned how to bathe him, dress him, and feed him a bottle. However, my parents raised us quite differently because we were so many years apart. By the time my brother came along, my parents had mellowed with age and had relaxed their rules.

In spite of having a distant father, Brian and I were both happy kids, and where Dad was lacking, Mom made up the difference. Dad was a silent parent, but he found it easier to relate to my brother, especially when he was old enough to enjoy hunting and fishing with him.

I don’t know when Dad started drinking, but it was a problem that challenged him all his life. He would be fine for months, and then he would have liquor stashed in secret places and suddenly start acting silly, which was a telltale sign that he had been drinking. He didn’t drink in public, only on the sly, but nevertheless, it affected all of us.

The years went by quickly, and we grew up. I don’t have the answers about that day at the beach, but someday, I’ll know what happened. In looking back, I thank God that I didn’t drown. As an adult, I have to give my dad the benefit of the doubt and believe there’s a missing piece to the puzzle. I had to absolve him so I wouldn’t drink the bitter cup of unforgiveness.

I enjoyed good health and married in 1979. I continued working for years but then developed a speech problem in 1993. When I was in my forties, I noticed that my voice had started to change. I had always had a soft voice, but it had gradually become raspy and strained. It became exhausting to talk, as I found myself short of breath while trying to talk. It was especially hard for people to hear me over the phone, as certain sounds and letters were hard to enunciate, which grew progressively worse over time.

I went to a battery of doctors and specialists. Nobody could determine what was wrong until I went to Scripts Clinic in La Jolla, California, where I was diagnosed with an unusual neurological disorder called spasmodic dysphonia. Simply put, it affects the muscles controlling the vocal cords. It changes normal speech into strained, strangled or whispered sounds marked by sudden starts and stops. It can make normally social people reluctant to go out in public or talk on the phone.

Since there’s no cure for it, I have tried speech therapy and all the exercises but have found them to be useless. Botox injections in the throat provides the only relief, which is a very specialized procedure. I usually have two treatments a year, which is tolerable. However, the downside is that my voice is reduced to a breathy whisper for several weeks until fully restored, which is always a challenge.

Mom was very supportive as I dealt with this neurological disorder, and as I said, except for this problem, I have been healthy. Dad showed little interest in my life, but I’m sure he felt more than he shared. He was hard of hearing, and my voice issues separated us even further, making it more difficult for us to communicate with each other.

I saw my parents on a regular basis after they sold their country home and retired in Riverside County, California. My brother was married, too, and busy raising two small kids, so he saw my parents less often. I always looked forward to my visits because Mom would always greet me at the door and smother me with kisses, but when I hugged Dad, his arms hung limp at his side.

As the years passed, my father became more distant, self-absorbed, and cranky. Again, Mom made up for his lack of affection, and we chatted away like two old magpies every visit.

My parents were now in their late seventies and led an active life until my mother became ill. She was always the one I talked to weekly on the phone to get updates, but if Dad answered, I could depend on a short conversation of mostly Yep or Nope. Rarely did we ever actually talk.

In April 1999, I received the phone call that everyone dreads. My mother said she had cancer. What I didn’t know was how drastic my life would change in the days that followed. I had no idea of the trials and hardships that the future would bring, but I was certainly sure of one thing: Dad was a challenge even on a good day. I shuddered at the days ahead.

As time went by, my role with Dad was undefined. Mom no longer was the mega-force that kept everything together; mainly, him. She was the contact, the go-between, my avenue of communication. She was the apex that held us together as a family. Now with her illness, everything was blurred. I no longer had the hedge of protection Mom provided as the intercessor.

Dad was now aged and vulnerable, and I was the strong one. Instead of my being the helpless little kid that almost drowned in the ocean so many years earlier, now I found myself in a strange set of circumstances where our roles were reversed. He was now the one drowning in a different kind of ocean—one of emotional isolation and darkness.

Would the grip of my love be enough to pull him out of the turbulent waves as they came crashing down in the days ahead? Would he even let me help him? Only time would tell.

CHAPTER 2

Thanksgiving

T he day before Thanksgiving 1999, Mom had fallen on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Dad was asleep and didn’t know she was gone, but when he woke up later, he found her collapsed in the hallway. He tried with all his might to pick her up, but he couldn’t. Although she was slim, she was dead weight. Dad panicked but didn’t call anyone. Instead, he lovingly covered her up on the carpet and stayed with her all night.

Uncle Steve and his wife, Margie, arrived at 9:00 a.m. to wish my parents a happy Thanksgiving but instead found a crisis. They carried Mom to her bed and made her as comfortable as possible. They were panicked about Mom but now were also worried about Dad’s mental state. They would have called me, but they knew my husband and I were on the way there already because of the holiday.

David and I arrived twenty minutes later at my parents’ house. We thought we were going to have a nice day but instead walked into an emergency situation. The minute we entered the front door, Steve and Margie hit us with everything. They gave us so much information, my head was spinning. Not only was my mother in trouble, Dad clearly was too. Steve and Margie couldn’t understand why he hadn’t called someone when Mom fell the night before.

Although I struggled with my own panic and bewilderment, I was able to stay focused while they were talking. David and I stood frozen in the doorway, trying to understand everything. I ran into the bedroom to see Mom, and David went to find Dad. My father was sitting in the bonus room looking dazed and smoking a cigarette.

After checking on Mom, I walked into the family room and sat down on the faded, green sofa, already emotionally drained. My thoughts were interrupted by the roar of the furnace that sent a blast of hot air through a ceiling vent. A distinct odor permeated the house—the smell of sickness, enhanced by the warm temperature in the house. Dad was always cold and had the heater blasting most of the time, especially since the weather had turned chilly. The house was stuffy, and I felt nauseated.

The hospice office was closed for the holiday, so we were in a tough situation because Mom needed help. Fortunately, my aunt and uncle lived next door to my folks and had the number for hospice. While they got the information, I went to see Dad, hoping he would tell me more. He was still sitting in his chair and didn’t say a word. In times like this, he said even less than normal and preferred to be alone.

Once David and I were confident that Dad was okay, we went next door to my uncle’s house to pray with them. As we walked to their house through the side yard fence, I felt so helpless. Dad was falling apart from the pressure, Mom needed hospitalization, and hospice was closed. I thought, can things get any worse? It was a cold, gray morning. The air was crisp, and the trees looked like dead sticks in Steve and Margie’s backyard.

We gathered in their family room and sat down to pray. Some of us pulled up chairs while others sat on the floor, holding hands in a small circle. The thought never occurred to me that Mom wouldn’t survive, but not getting her in a hospice facility worried me, not to mention how to handle Dad.

I don’t remember who started the prayer, but we each took turns saying a few words. I pleaded for God’s help and divine wisdom. David stayed a few minutes longer while I went outside. The gravity of the situation had drained me, and I had to get some air. I leaned against the outside garage wall and felt the cold, rough stucco through my sweater. I lingered there for a moment and then slid down the wall, put my head between my knees, and burst into tears.

This was the worst day of my life. Everyone turned to me for help, as these were my parents and essentially my responsibility. I didn’t have any answers or see any solutions, but after having my meltdown, I felt better.

I went back into my parents’ house. Dad was still sitting in his chair smoking, but this time, he was also watching TV. I know he was worried about my mother and in the past had taken good care of her, but his way of coping was to withdraw into his shell of solitude.

Mom was still resting peacefully. David made coffee while we waited to call hospice when suddenly, Steve burst through the door, waving his hands and shouting, We reached hospice, and a nurse is on the way here! All of us cheered, high fived each other, and thanked the Lord for sending help.

The nurse arrived about forty-five minutes later. We were so relieved that when she rang the doorbell, we smothered her at the front door. She was a tall, middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick and auburn hair swept up in a wispy French braid. She constantly brushed back long strands of hair from her face as she reached out with a big smile and a firm handshake. As I was the first one to open the door, I not only shook her hand, but hugged her too.

After a brief introduction, she pulled out a large, black notebook and confirmed the patient information. Hospice had been caring for Mom for about two months, and all the records were in order. After talking to Uncle Steve, she knew she had to help even if it was a holiday and she was on her way home.

Before I took the nurse to see Mom, I pulled her aside in the hallway and told her about the fall the night before and our concerns about Dad. I also told her that when David and I arrived we almost took Mom to a local hospital. The nurse then raised her eyebrow and said, It’s a good thing you didn’t. Then she smiled and said, Honey, your Mom’s insurance benefits as a hospice patient would not have been covered by standard hospitals. She must be put into a hospice center, but we must wait.

I looked at her like she was crazy and snapped, Wait, how’s that possible? You can see my mother’s condition, not to mention Dad’s. And I don’t live close by. You mean there’s no room for her now? I started to panic as a lump rose in my throat.

The nurse patted my hand and said, Things change daily. We’ll talk later. Everything will work out. Don’t worry. Now let’s go see your mother. I tried to push my fears aside as I quietly walked into Mom’s room and introduced her to the nurse.

Mom was awake and nodded as we entered her room. She was in the final stages of lung cancer, and