#18 Fever
Last week, I had COVID for the second time—as far as I know. The first one triggered a radical change in life, so when I saw the two little markers, I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best because I’m starting to get a grip on this lifestyle and not in the mood to change again—yet. Anyhow, independently of my willpower and optimism, the bug was clearly stronger than me, which caused headaches, pain, nausea, and fever. One minute, I fell into Hell; the next was at the North Pole. Maybe, due to the fever, I was delirious for a bit— I cannot say it did not happen— and something came to my mind those days, a date I had not thought about for years. While trembling in bed, watching an American soap opera on my phone, I realized it was my father’s birthday. The memory of him made me feel even weaker, and I did what I’ve been doing for the last few months. I gathered the little energy I still had and wrote this:
Today would have been his birthday. He would have turned sixty-eight. Instead, he’s sharing some space with other family members in a shiny marble wall I haven’t seen for almost twenty years. The last time I saw his face, he was already gone, and the smile on his face was not really his but the one a stranger imagined and created for him. I spent one night meeting people who had known him, wondering if he would be him, the one in that coffin. Throughout the years, I allowed myself to think that he was not that corpse, and he had run away from all of us— all his troubles— and was living on a tropical island surrounded by good music and beautiful women. Those were his favorite things in the world.
When my kids were born, I thought about their grandad as children think about Christmas presents: I wondered how good he would be, how special, and how exhausting, at times, to have such a grandad in the family. My father was the favorite uncle of his family, who appeared by surprise, bringing presents for everyone and telling unique stories that would make me cry from all the laughing. He was attractive and relaxed, and everything seemed right when he was around. That’s how he was for everyone but me. He did not surprise me; every visit was planned. The presents were accounted for, part of the judge-approved custody, and his stories made me sad because they reminded me how little I meant in his life. His wonderful and adventurous life.
He would tell me I’d lived a boring life if he were here. When I got my first job, he told me I should not spend my good years working for others, and now that I’m reaching the age he left, I know he would be disappointed. He would wonder how I - his only daughter- could have wasted my years working, having children, and tying the knot with a man for so many years. He always said there are too many interesting people in the world to choose only one. Maybe he was right. Perhaps I lost the opportunity to know the perfect one and the imperfect many, and still, something tells me he was not completely happy with his life and his decisions. At the end of his days, even surrounded by people, he was alone, and I am not sure that was part of his plan.
I remember how he was when I was little. At home, he was restless, always thinking about the next thing he could do. Whenever we met others, he was the life of the party. He joked and laughed and made everyone else feel amazing.
I also remember how his friends and family spoke about him when he was not around, and I was considered too little to understand their conversations. They called him selfish, a man-child, unable to commit and succeed in life… a clown.
When I was little, I loved him.
When I grew up, I resented him.
When he was gone, I hated him.
Now, many years later, I miss what he would have become.
In case you can read, listen, see, or feel it somehow, happy birthday, old man.
So, how do you call it when you speak to people who left this realm so many years ago but feel as if you had last seen them last week? Delirious, I know. Let’s blame it on the fever… because saying I miss him- for real- would be too much to handle right now…
