The things that trigger grief for my dad are random these days.
I pass a truck exactly like the one he drove on my street at least twice a month. I hold my breath thinking it might be him, pulling in for a visit. Logically, I know it isn’t, but my heart falls every time the truck passes my driveway. When I go to order my dog’s food, I scroll to the aptly named phone contact, “Dog Food,” and have to I pass the Dad contact. His cell phone number, three years disconnected. If he’d ever recorded a message I would likely still have it in service just so I could hear his voice from time to time, but he hated answering machines and left the robot message as every outgoing message. I still can’t delete the number. The mailbox is a trigger because I still get his mail. Mostly from the NRA–the most persistent mailers on the planet. I can’t watch Fox News without thinking of him. I can’t watch it much anyway, but that channel was the constant soundtrack in his home and his death.
Then there’s the root beer float.
credit: wikipedia.org
I walk through the soda aisle at the grocery store, and the IBC root beer displays make me tear up.
My dad couldn’t eat much during his chemo treatments. The anti-nausea meds work wonders, but he just said, “Food doesn’t taste right anymore. Everything tastes metallic.”
Most days all he could stomach was Ensure.
I tried making him smoothies, anything really that would keep some weight on him, but I was fighting his pride as well. Until his last major hospitalization, he was happy about his weight loss. He kept saying, “I’m at my high school weight for the first time in 50 years. 155…”
The chemo diet.
I didn’t blame him, and can’t say I wouldn’t think the same thing.
Damn I’m dying of cancer, but at least I’m thin again…
That’s so fucked up…
We finally found something he could tolerate, and that was a root beer float. So I would make him one every afternoon. The traditional beer at 5 pm, became IBC and Blue Bell vanilla ice cream.
He was never a big talker. When he did open his mouth, it was usually something oddly funny or hurtful and critical that came out.
I think that’s a common problem for introverts. The blurting. When you don’t say much, you are statistically more likely to be remembered for criticism instead of all the good thoughts you’ve kept to yourself.
But he was Goldilocks with these floats.
They were never quite right, and it became my personal mission to make one that was finally up to his standards.
I bought IBC, A&W, different kinds of ice creams.
I experimented with ice cream to soda ratios. I blended half, left scoops on top, poured more or less root beer, made it a shake. Drink it with a straw. Eat it with a spoon. A hybrid just thick enough to enjoy both ways…
I was determined to get it right, and set about it with the same dogged determination I apply to everything I can’t achieve.
Then one day, I finally nailed it.
He said, “Honey, that was the perfect root beer float. Thank you”
And the David Allen Coe bar song came on, and we agreed, I hadn’t written the perfect country and western song, but I had finally made a perfect root beer float.
♫ And I’ll hang around as long as you will let me, let me, let me…♫
The angels sang, the rain clouds parted, unicorns shot rainbows out of their asses, the nuns farted loudly in the choir pew, Nessie did a happy dance, Big Foot did a hurkey in the living room and kicked Glenn Beck in the face, and I basked in his uncharacteristic praise.
And then we watched more Fox News and forgot about it.
I continued to make him root beer floats, and never achieved that perfection again. I tried to remember the ratio yesterday and couldn’t. I have no idea what combination finally worked, and it made me cry again.
I think back on it now, and realize it’s a theme for a lot of my life.
I walk around trying to find the perfect balance, the perfect ratio for success, and when I do hit the sweet spot, I can’t remember how I did it. It was an accident. A freak of nature. The perfect shot in golf. The one shot keeps us coming back to the most infuriating game ever played. You fail and fail and fail, and the best most of us can hope for is a par hole. And par is just average. That’s what you should be hitting if you have any skill for the game at all…if you were great, you’d be hitting an eagle every time.
In the end, you can’t do anything for someone else’s praise.
You do it because you love it. You love them. You love root beer floats too, and even when they aren’t perfect, they’re still pretty good. In spite of the all the grumbling, you’ve still got the memories of sitting down and drinking a root beer float with your dad every day for a while.
You do it because you can’t take cancer away, but you can do this for them.
Blue Bell ice cream can’t cure cancer. I can’t be perfect.
In a funny twist, my daughter sat down at the computer and hit publish on this post before I put in a picture, before I tagged it, and before I really did the final edit or finished my thought.
It wasn’t perfect then, it isn’t now, and that’s okay.
I cleaned it up a little, embarrassed but still laughing.
Perfection is over-rated, and an accidental publish was probably a better ending than I had planned anyway.
Happy Friday!
RFL
This. Is. Beautiful.
Thank you, John. I really appreciate that.
This is really beautiful, thank you for writing it. My dad is similarly quiet and often critical, so I can relate to that feeling of hitting the sweet spot and actually earning his praise. I’m going to try to remember your words, though (“When you don’t say much, you are statistically more likely to be remembered for criticism instead of all the good thoughts you’ve kept to yourself”) and assume he’s just keeping some of the good stuff to himself.
Thanks for reading it! I really hope that helps…I struggled so much with my dad because he never really seemed to have much to say that was positive. But I’m introverted in the same way, and I experience that over and over again. I think it’s probably a safe assumption that your dad has a lot of great thoughts and praise for you, and hopefully you’ll get to experience some positive blurting!
Wonderful post. And cue the tears…
Love the note about introvert blurting. I completely get it.
Thanks, Carly! Sorry about the tears…introvert blurting is the worst…ughh.
you have such a natural, subtle, intuitive gift. keep using it, friend.
High praise coming from you, Maria, thank you!
This really hit home for me. My dad passed away during emergency surgery three days before my birthday in October. He and my mom were coming to visit that day to celebrate my birthday with me and my sons. I was able to get to the hospital before he went back for surgery. I was the last one to see him (not counting the medical staff, obviously). I tear up when I read the Reader’s Digest. He would always tell me the jokes that he liked…. He sounds like your dad, quiet. He was a man of few words. Hold your memories tight. It seems like that’s how we get through our loss. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him….. Sending hugs your way.
Thanks for sharing your story too. I’m sorry about your dad. Hugs back to you.
This made me all misty and stuff. My dad is still around, but someday he won’t be, and my memories of him will be much like the ones you have of your dad. He too is a man of few words, and he isn’t satisfied with much, so the idea of hearing “Honey, that was the perfect root beer float” would be enough to put me on a personal crusade to replicate that success again for him. But like you said, you have the memories of root beer floats with him, and that’s huge. Thank you for this.
Sorry about the mist and stuff. I really hadn’t even decided if I would post this but K decided for me, so boom, another sad dad story unleashed on WP:) It’s weird the kinds of things that can trigger the “win the quiet man’s approval” instinct in us. I hope you have tons more perfect root beer float moments with your dad though. Thanks so much for your thoughtful comment.
Love this post and your writing. I’m from Oklahoma too and I love to read all your posts! Always learning for my own writing improvement, keep it up.
http://www.foodcharmer.com
Liz
Thanks, Liz!
This was beautiful
Thank you!
Rachelle,
Thank you for this beautiful post. My dad was mostly critical, too. He’s been gone almost seven years now, and I find that with time, I do remember the few times when he was gave out praise. I think it does get easier…with time.
Cathy
Thanks Cathy. Time does seem to help, but it always seems like the criticism is easier to recall. Thanks for your encouragement.
What a lovely post. My dad wasn’t much of a talker, either, and had his share of faults. And I wonder how much of that came from the horrors he saw as a surgical technician in WWII. I try to remember the good times and the fact that I know he really did love us in his way.
It’s important to try to put their lives and experiences in perspective as well. I try to give my dad a break these days, comforted as you said said so well, that he/they loved us in their way. Thanks for your thoughtful comment, JM!
HOly schmoly, I love that David Allen Coe song and this post is pure TExas. The NRA, blue bell ice cream, the D.A. Coe…man, I have shivers right now. Thank you. These are rich memories and you are generous to share them with us.
Thanks, Christie! It was pretty Texas wasn’t it? I never realized until my brother moved away to CO, that Blue Bell isn’t available all over the world. When he comes to visit, it’s all Texas beer, BBQ, and stock piling the best ice cream in the country
Very poignant post, Rachelle. It makes me think of my own dad who lives in San Francisco. He’s still kicking, but he turns 86 in March, he has a heart condition and overall, he’s now pretty frail. His appetite isn’t what it was anymore and he’s significantly shrunk is size from the robust guy he’d been for decades. When I visited for Xmas, I sat next to him at dinner. My sister served him the size portion he could have easily eaten in his younger days, but now it’s a struggle. When no one was paying attention he cut his chicken in half, slid it onto my plate, and whispered, “Shh, eat that for me, will you? Keep it secret.” I did just that. My sister was thrilled that he ate so heartily. I kept the secret, and hope I did the right thing.
Thank you! Your story brought tears to my eyes, and I’m sure that your dad appreciated your help with the chicken portion.
If it goes according to plan, they watch us grow up and worry, then there’s a bit of a break on both sides, before things shift, and we watch them grow old and worry. In my mom’s case, and it sound like your dad’s, there wasn’t enough growing old time.
Very true. It’s crushing when there isn’t enough growing old time.
A lovely post that pulled at emotions and tears. What a nice way to sum up your relationship: simple and yet complex and balancing itself to get to perfection. Much like the elusive root beer float.
Thannk you!
This was really special, Rachelle. I’m sure all versions of your Root Beer Float tasted wonderful to your dad. I have one memory that stays with me, and it was of making a tuna fish sandwich for my dad. He wanted it made with Miracle Whip, not mayonnaise. It bothered me to watch him try to eat it, and I wanted to help him, but he was proud and would struggle through his meals by himself. He ate all of the sandwich that day and said it tasted great. Chemo is an ugly thing. … And, yes, perfection is overrated.
Thanks, Maddie and thank you for sharing your story. It is strange how the chemo can make food so different for them. You’re right chemo is just ugly all around.
I stumbled on your blog…by accident…, and this was the second post I’ve read so far. Damn, you still crack me up and make me cry within seconds of each other! Love ya, and…I miss him too…Both of them.
Love you too, Marcie. I’m happy you stumbled across it. I miss them both too, and I’m so sorry that I never really got what you were going through. I always think of a Grey’s scene. When George’s dad died and Christina talks to him about “the club.” (Do you know what I’m talking about?)
I wish I had been there for you more.
damn it – made me cry again!
My dad (2.5 years gone now) was the opposite of a introvert and yet often critical. Deep down I know he loved me dearly, considered me a success and was proud of me and yet I spent my whole life trying to “hit the sweet spot” and get it “just right!”
Now whenever I pass the radishes in the produce department I practically cry. (he loved them!)
( now I must get myself under control before a customer comes in needing to buy some expensive furniture, damn it!
)
Sorry to make you cry! Yesterday was a tough day, for you as well I’m sure.