A turkey and a bucket of lard

My father compensated the doctor that delivered me with a guanajo (turkey) and a bucket of lard. No small feat as when I was born, castro’s revolution had already triumphed and everything was already rationed. During the next three and a half years my dad was arrested and thrown in jail often, and sometimes beaten, because his son always had more milk than the other kids in the neighborhood. His son always had meat and chicken and eggs and everything else that other children didnt.

In his forties, my old man – after going through hell to get visas – boarded an airplane bound for the United States with his wife, daughter and son. He brought us all here, without knowing anyone, without knowing the culture or the language, so that his son would never have to worry about having milk to drink or food on his plate or having to go through life without a father.

And even though the old man sometimes worked two or three jobs at the same time so his son wouldnt be want of anything, and even though he didnt get to see his son all that often or spend that much time with him, when I, his son, needed him, he was always there. I never got to play catch with my dad, but he made sure I had a ball and glove. I didnt get to go fishing with my father that often, but he made sure I had a rod and reel and knew how to cast.

When his son was 6 and had appendicitis, despite not having any insurance, my old man made sure his son got the absolute best medical care. He’d work day and night to earn the money to pay the hospital bills and then spend the overnight hours on an uncomfortable chair, much to the hospital personnel’s chagrin, next to his son’s hospital bed.

The old man worked and toiled to make sure his son always had clothes on his back, food in his stomach and a roof over his head. His son was going to have everything he never had as a child. Even if money was tight, come Christmas and el Dia de los Reyes, there would always be a brand spanking new toy for his son. Or a shiny bicycle. Or a new baseball glove and bat. Or a GI Joe.

When my mother had a heart attack and was unable to tend to me or my sister, my old man made sure we were fed. He made sure I washed behind the ears and brushed my teeth. He made sure I had clean underwear and clean sneakers and that my clothes matched. He packed my lunches and made sure I didnt miss the schoolbus. He made sure I picked up my room and doused me in iodine or mercurochrome when I scraped my knees or cut my fingers. His calloused hands fumbled with bandaids many a time.

The old man, my old man, has always been there for me. He’s never failed me and has broken his fingers and hurt his back and gotten many a sore muscle to make sure that his wife and his daughter and his son wouldnt have to break fingers or hurt their backs or have sore muscles.

Some weeks back my old man was told – with much certainty by the specialist running the tests – that he had major arterial blockage and that he would need a catherization and most probably an angioplasty in order to alleviate the problem. I read the concern in my old man’s face when he told me he needed the procedure. He worried. My mom worried. My sister and my nieces and the rest of the family worried. I worried.

Sleep became scarce since for all of us.

I dont think any of us wanted to talk in the car on the way to the hospital yesterday morning. But the old man, fighting through his nervousness, kept complaining about how hungry he was. “If the procedure doesnt kill me,” he kept saying with a smile on his face. “Im certainly going to starve to death.”

While at the hospital, when it got a little too quiet in the pre-op waiting room, he’d chime in: “If the procedure doesnt kill me and I dont starve, I’ll most certainly freeze to death.”

And when the moment came that he was to be taken into the operating room, as we kissed him and wished him well and fought back tears, when he looked at me right before he turned to follow the nurse, his eyes didnt speak of worry even though I know he was concerned. No. The look on his face told me “If something happens to me, you’re in charge.” I will remember that look, and everything that it means, for the rest of my life.

Hospital waiting rooms after a while feel like prison cells. Even though you’re free to leave, come and go as you please, you cant. So you wait. You sit there on uncomfortable chairs among other people who are just as desperate to not be there as you. You stand up, pace back and forth for a while, then sit right back down again. And all youre thinking about during the hours that youre there is the look your loved one gave you just before they were carted out to their procedure.

I sat there with my sister and mother and niece and all I could think about was that I didnt want to be in charge. No. Not just yet. I prayed that it wasnt yet my turn to take the family reins. I prayed that my old man handled this adversity just like he’d handled every adversity he’d ever faced in his life, by looking it dead in the face and kicking its ass.

And apparently, that’s exactly what my old man did. Not only did he get past the worry and survive the procedure and withstand its pain, but he did so like the man he’s always been.

A couple hours after my dad had been taken into the op room, as I paced back and forth along the corridor, the doctor came up to me and asked “Are you Jesus’ son?”

“Yes, doctor,” I replied holding my breath.

“Well, if your old man survived getting run over by his own truck,” he smiled. “He’ll survive anything. El viejo tuyo no tiene nicojones.”

Turns out my old man has no arterial blockage whatsoever. He has cleaner arteries, the doctor said, than any he’d seen on a patient his age before. And, to top it off, the old man was rather impressive in the operating room. Not only did he take the procedure “like a man,” but was quite talkative during the whole thing.

Four hours later I was in the recovery room with the old man. He was lying on a gurney complaining about being cold – “Hace un frio del coño su madre!” – and how he was about to die of starvation – “Cojones! Tengo un hambre del coño su madre.”

I had to help him off the gurney. I helped him cover his backside with a blanket when he stood up. I helped him put on his underwear. Helped him put on his pants. Put his socks on and his shoes. Helped him with his shirt and a little while later, I drove him and mom home.

Last night was my first full night’s sleep in I dont know how long even though I cried myself to sleep.

And when I woke this morning, Id been dreaming of a turkey and a bucket of lard.

***

A sincere and hearfelt thanks to all for your prayers and thoughts for my old man’s well being. He’s recuperating quite nicely at home now, with the great news that he’s healthy as a horse. He’s no longer freezing and has eaten the fridge bare.