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My father and I hadn't hugged since I was a child, more than thirty years earlier. Awkward handshakes punctuated our reunions like misplaced commas. I once tried grabbing his shoulder as we shook hands, but the look on his face made me withdraw immediately.
I wanted to express my love when he was diagnosed with an advanced stage of colon cancer. The doctor explained that even with surgery and chemotherapy, the cancer would likely reoccur within a few years. My father put on a brave front and opted for surgery.
We spoke on the phone just before the operation. From the tone of his voice, I could picture him wearing his macho mask, the one where he narrowed his eyes and tightened his lips.
"I'll beat this thing," he said.
"I know you will," I muttered after a long silence.
I lived a thousand miles away. Leaving my new job and family was going to be difficult, but I wanted to be there for him and for my mom. He said not to come. I called my mother the day of the operation and she broke down. I took the next flight.
I got to the hospital while he was recuperating and consoled my mother, who looked much older than she had just a few months earlier. We hugged and cried. I had no problem showing emotion with her. Then we put on our masks and went to see him.
Attached to tubes and machines, he looked like a neglected marionette. A bony leg stuck out from under the blanket. The sight of my father's leg forced me to confront his mortality in a way the doctor's medical explanation had failed.
I sat by his bed, waiting for an opportunity to talk. "The doctor cut out all the cancer," he whispered. "I'll be as good as new soon as I get home."
I wanted to say, "Dad, I know the truth."
I wanted to say, "Dad, I'm scared."
I wanted to say, "Dad, I love you."
Instead, I said, "You're a fighter, Dad."
I returned home and he underwent chemo. My mother told me how terrible it made him feel. He said it wasn't so bad. We made plans to visit, this time with my wife and son. "Give me a few months and I'll feel like my old self."
We prepared our son, who was about six at the time, for the likelihood of his grandfather's death. We feared what he might look like, a frail old man waiting to die.
We were surprised. Considering what he'd been through, he looked good. Thinner, flesh hung loosely from below his chin like a reminder of a once robust life, but he seemed in high spirits, happy to be back home. The first thing he wanted to do was take his grandson fishing. I went along, thinking it would be a good time to talk, but we both used the boy as an excuse not to discuss anything more than politics and baseball.
I wondered why I no longer felt satisfied with this, our usual conversation. Why did I want more? I remembered sitting on his lap as a child, the smell of sweet pipe tobacco and Old Spice. It was so easy to say, "I love you" back then. Why were we both no longer capable of sharing such emotion?
That evening, he and I sat on the living room couch while my wife and mother played with our son in another room. We stared at each other uneasily.
"So how are you?" I asked.
"Better than I thought."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."
After a long silence, my father said, "When the doctor told me I had cancer, I cried."
I wanted to reach out and grab his shoulder, but I couldn't move or say anything. A lifetime of awkward handshakes had me paralyzed. Worse, I feared he'd pull away.
Just then, my son rushed in and jumped on my lap. I hugged and kissed him; it seemed so natural. He told us grandma was baking chocolate chip cookies.
My father died a year later.
Dad. I wanted to tell you I cried, too.
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