I called my dad the other night to check on him. His arthritic knee has been bothering him though it hasn’t slowed him down one hobble. I’ve grown accustomed to Ben’s refusal to admit that he’s getting older even though an injury like his should make him want to sit on the nearest porch and learn to whittle or at least realize that instead of hauling the grandkids to war museums, he can pass on his right wing propaganda by using London’s superheroes as a Greek chorus for fighting affirmative action. But he doesn’t listen to the doctors, his joints, or me. And not listening is not a new thing for this old man who can no longer play knick knack on at least one of his knees.
Turns out, though, that the pain in his leg-hinge has unleashed the inner-philosopher in him, at least during the late night hours. In Florida where he ambulates, this means after 6 p.m., the time when the rest of us are trying to manufacture meals for the pre-homework set.
“Did you read that article I sent you?” is how he greeted me on the telephone and my mind scrambled to recall which missive he was referring to. In any given week, my dad e-mails or slow posts me a stack of articles ranging in content from a somber rant about the decline of English grammar in crack dens to a more saccharine epistle about some manic character named John whose motto is “If I were any better, I’d be twins,” which really makes no sense at all even if you’re a member of the grammar police smoking rock in glass pipes.
“Remind me,” I say, scolding the finger I employ to press the delete button.
“It was about a father looking back on his life as he approaches the end. That’s where I am.”
I scowl at the mouthpiece. “Are you telling me that you’re dying?”
“We’re all dying, Rob, that’s what I’ve been trying to explain to all you boys.” When Ben switches from the individual son to the collective brood, I know I’m in for a filibuster-long senior citizen-sized sermon.
“You have?” Did I delete that e-mail too?
He sighs. “We’re all dying, all the time. We have to make choices. Do we want to just give up and lie by the side of the road and let life pass us by?”
I imagined my dad languishing on the shoulder of some Florida interstate surrounded by orange rinds and discarded orthopedic shoes. “Um, no?”
“Or do we want to just keep on moving forward, even if we have to deal with a bum knee or a um, a um …”
“Bum rap?”
“No, that’s not right, but I think you get the picture.”
I crinkled my brow in a self-narrating moment though I was silent and no one could see me. “Is there another option?” I asked.
“You’re not listening to me.”
“I’m trying.” Maybe it was me, not the old folks, who desperately needed the Miracle Ear.
“Can I sit here and worry that my knee causes me pain?”
“No, but ….”
“See, you agree with me then!”
If Sunbird Tzu had let me finish, I would suggested that physical therapy and sports medicine would serve him better than some self-created crackpot denial therapy, but we had reached a point in our conversation where it was probably better to pause than press on. So that’s what I did. After all, parents just want their children to agree with and appreciate them once in a while and resist the all too easy knee-jerk reaction.