I spoke to both my parents last night, which is a rare enough occurrence to be worthy of comment. My dad and I are not close, and this past summer we did not see each other despite my being in Cape Breton for more than two weeks. Basically, he wouldn't come to me, and I refused to go to him after the way he treated my mother on our last visit. He has been sick for a number of years, and I used to believe him when he told me that he couldn't drive very much because he was too weak. Since I don't drive, my mom would take us to him, about 1.5 to 2 hours from her place. After the last disaster in 2003, I learned that not only did he drive as far as the area where she lives, but farther, and on a regular basis. Making it worse is the fact that he himself told me this, conveniently forgetting his previous lies. Since none of us were too eager to see him, I resolved to see how interested he was in seeing us. As it turned out, not at all. I felt after that I had been wrong to call his bluff, that I had sunk to his level. On the other hand, I still was considering not calling on Christmas Day just to see if he would call us. Since he ended last night by saying Merry Christmas, I guess I'm off the hook.
The reason for the call was to get his address (I can't find my address book) so we could mail a parcel to him and my stepmother. Very quickly, however, the call moved on to his health. Every time I talk to him, I sense a man with regrets who either lacks the will or the words to express them. This comes up in particular when he talks about his health. There is a sense of missed opportunities in every line. He's 68 years old, and I never expected him to see 50 due to an awful lot of tobacco and alcohol. But as he often said about his ancient father, another world class drinker, only the good die young, and my father would not be considered "good" by any conventional standard.
He has had leukemia for quite a few years, and every time we speak the discussion is centred around white blood cell counts and platelets. He takes one Leukeran and two Prednisone each day in unknown doses. At this moment, his platelets are up and his white cell count is 18. I have no idea what 18 means, but this is apparently a good number, as is the increase in platelets. Despite this, he says he feels tired and has spells of weakness. I suggested that this may be a product of being 68, and he seemed hurt by this. It was a mean thing to say, I know, but I can never seem to resist taking shots at him for the many past slights, real and imagined, that define our relationship.
Now, there is a new problem, or at least new to me, since it was apparent from our talk that this has been going on for a while: his prostate. Back in the spring, his count was 6 (again, I don't know what this is 6 of, but I think it might be PSA, or prostate specific antigen), and now it is 12, sending him back to the specialist on January 4. He said that the elevated number doesn't mean cancer, but I could tell he was worried. But I couldn't comfort him, because I am not good at that and there is simply too much between us for me to summon those reserves of empathy for him. We moved on to my brother Stephen's disastrous marital situation, and ended with his Christmas greeting.
A few minutes later I was on the phone with my mother to get my grandmother's address, which she only sort of knew, although it was enough to help me figure out the rest. We talk all the time, although not much recently, no reason for it, just time. One of her closest friends is dying of cancer, and she clearly wanted to talk about it. But there was a lot of noise in the apartment, Maxine was trying to settle the kids down and clean up after wrapping presents and putting up our tree (earliest ever for us), and I got off in less than 25 minutes. I felt badly because my mother has always been my rock, the one person who seems to expect the best out of me without judging or exhorting (compared to my wife, who has practical considerations that must take precedent over our personal desires, or my children, who think I can do no wrong), and last night I couldn't be there for her. I'll be calling her again tonight, and I resolve to be a better son when I do.
The reason for the call was to get his address (I can't find my address book) so we could mail a parcel to him and my stepmother. Very quickly, however, the call moved on to his health. Every time I talk to him, I sense a man with regrets who either lacks the will or the words to express them. This comes up in particular when he talks about his health. There is a sense of missed opportunities in every line. He's 68 years old, and I never expected him to see 50 due to an awful lot of tobacco and alcohol. But as he often said about his ancient father, another world class drinker, only the good die young, and my father would not be considered "good" by any conventional standard.
He has had leukemia for quite a few years, and every time we speak the discussion is centred around white blood cell counts and platelets. He takes one Leukeran and two Prednisone each day in unknown doses. At this moment, his platelets are up and his white cell count is 18. I have no idea what 18 means, but this is apparently a good number, as is the increase in platelets. Despite this, he says he feels tired and has spells of weakness. I suggested that this may be a product of being 68, and he seemed hurt by this. It was a mean thing to say, I know, but I can never seem to resist taking shots at him for the many past slights, real and imagined, that define our relationship.
Now, there is a new problem, or at least new to me, since it was apparent from our talk that this has been going on for a while: his prostate. Back in the spring, his count was 6 (again, I don't know what this is 6 of, but I think it might be PSA, or prostate specific antigen), and now it is 12, sending him back to the specialist on January 4. He said that the elevated number doesn't mean cancer, but I could tell he was worried. But I couldn't comfort him, because I am not good at that and there is simply too much between us for me to summon those reserves of empathy for him. We moved on to my brother Stephen's disastrous marital situation, and ended with his Christmas greeting.
A few minutes later I was on the phone with my mother to get my grandmother's address, which she only sort of knew, although it was enough to help me figure out the rest. We talk all the time, although not much recently, no reason for it, just time. One of her closest friends is dying of cancer, and she clearly wanted to talk about it. But there was a lot of noise in the apartment, Maxine was trying to settle the kids down and clean up after wrapping presents and putting up our tree (earliest ever for us), and I got off in less than 25 minutes. I felt badly because my mother has always been my rock, the one person who seems to expect the best out of me without judging or exhorting (compared to my wife, who has practical considerations that must take precedent over our personal desires, or my children, who think I can do no wrong), and last night I couldn't be there for her. I'll be calling her again tonight, and I resolve to be a better son when I do.
posted by George @ 12:26 p.m.
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