A Visit With My Pappa
Putting aside their differences, a father and daughter will be together for what may be the final time
Editor’s note: This essay is part of Telling Our Stories: Reflections on the Pandemic. We invited readers to share their experiences of the past year, and selected 12 essays for publication on Next Avenue. Read the full collection.
My father and I have had an uneasy alliance over much of the past four years. We've gone for months without speaking, agreed to disagree, avoided talking about the elephant in the room and have now come to a realization that family and love sometimes trump (no pun intended) everything.
You see, my father is 87 and suffering from multiple myeloma. He was diagnosed in March 2020. Prior to the pandemic, I had plans to see him. We'd put aside our differences and I was looking forward with some trepidation to seeing my dad, whom I had not seen in over a year.
I was afraid for him and for myself. I followed all the CDC recommendations – masks, hand sanitizer, no gatherings of anyone not in the immediate family, no unnecessary travel. It was the perfect excuse not to see him. Not to delve into the chasm that had developed between us.
He arrived in the U.S. in 1948, a 15-year-old immigrant who didn't speak English.
Fast forward one year to February 2021. Biden is in office. The second impeachment trial has ended. Vaccinations are underway but not for my dad (immunocompromised) and not for me (not yet 65).
I have a ticket to see my dad next month. In Florida. For two weeks. For the most part, Florida has not embraced CDC guidelines at least as far as I can tell.
But my father's cancer is Stage 3. The life expectancy for someone diagnosed with multiple myeloma is twenty-nine months if they've been diagnosed early, are young and in good health. He was diagnosed one year ago when life began to unravel.
He calls and complains of dizziness. Of bone pain. Of nightmares. Of weakness and fatigue. I Google the symptoms and cry. He talks of painting his apartment once he feels better and maybe traveling to his native Finland once more. He's never been one to give up hope.
The pandemic has given me a lot of time to think about my dad. He arrived in the U.S. in 1948, a 15-year-old immigrant who didn't speak English. I've reflected on the courage it took to leave his family and start a new life with the American Dream his only companion.
He and my mother raised two successful children, welcomed seven grandchildren before my mother passed away. I am all he has left. I need to hear the old stories again lest they be forgotten.
I made the reservations. My heart beat loudly and my mouth was dry. I wondered if this new anxiety about travel is a pandemic-related phenomenon. I'll wear my mask and be careful.
I know that if I don't go, I'll be haunted by not seeing my dad and hearing the old stories just one more time.
I am originally from Fishkill, N.Y., born to Finnish immigrants. I attended college and got an M.A. in Psychology, married and moved to Puerto Rico where my husband and I had four children. We have since relocated to Rochester, Minn.
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