When I was a boy, I watched my dad sink an axe blade into his right leg.
He was trying to crack a welded join connecting a pair of 55-gallon barrels when the axe head ricocheted off a drum and struck him square in the shin. I remember the dull thump of the metal hitting his leg and the bloody splinters of bone hanging from the cut in his jeans. But mostly I remember the calm way in which he went into the house, took a shower and then drove himself to the hospital. Aside from muttering something about being stupid, Dad never said a word. Still, the pain contorting his face at every jagged step told me how much agony he must have been in.
It took him maybe 20 minutes to clean up, put on a sports coat and walk out the door just as casually as if he was getting ready for church. When he backed the station wagon out of the driveway, I could hear the crackling of the gravel under the tires—the same sound that woke me the next morning when he left for work.
If there are tougher men than my father, I’ve never met them. The youngest of six and the son of an alcoholic father, Dad’s strength was formed out of tough circumstances and years of manual labor on the family’s farm. It’s what served him well later in life as a decorated Green Beret fighting in the jungles of Vietnam. Now, at 60, the signs of aging may have begun to show, but that hasn’t made him any less durable.
After his doctor repeatedly recommended knee surgery over the years, Dad finally agreed to the procedure. But only on the condition he could postpone it for eight more months so that his recovery and rehab coincided with college basketball’s March Madness. Dad’s knees had been giving him trouble for God knows how long, and his legs were so bowed he looked like a plastic action figure made specifically to ride on a toy horse. Yet for all the discomfort this had caused him, alleviating it could wait. “Winter’s coming,” he explained. “I need to cut and haul wood before it gets here.”
I’ve always hoped to be as strong as my father, but sitting behind a computer most of the day, it’s difficult to see myself as such. When I call my mother to see what Dad’s up to, I feel a twinge of guilt when she says he’s outside shoveling snow from the driveway. Moments like these make me realize there’s almost no comparison between us in this respect, which is why it surprised me when he admitted to something that he couldn’t handle.
“I couldn’t do it,” he said as I told him of the latest difficulties I was having with my ex-wife not allowing me access to my three sons. He shook his head. “You’re tougher than I am.”
It sounded strange hearing him say this especially since we were currently inspecting the length of a 50-foot wall he constructed from rocks hauled in a rusty wheelbarrow from the woods behind his house. I knew his sentiment was sincere, but I downplayed it nonetheless. Yes it was difficult having to contend with the emotions of living hundreds of miles away from my own children, while at the same time overcoming their mother’s roadblocks to my involvement in their lives. These were circumstances I had no choice but to live with, like a lifelong illness that can only be treated for the symptoms, not the cure. Even so, I hardly considered it on par to hacking one’s shin with an axe blade.
Months later I flew to be with my oldest son while he was having his tonsils removed. It would be a quick trip with little time for me to spend with all three of the boys, further complicated by the guidelines laid down by their mother over how much time that would actually entail. This didn’t matter much to me, though. I was just grateful for the chance to calm my 10-year-old son’s fears before surgery and then to read to him in the recovery room afterwards. But, like always, the time together was hardly enough. A sample of sweetness that only reminded me of what I was missing.
That evening, I was given one more bittersweet taste of this as their mother agreed to let me visit with the boys before my flight early the next morning.
Walking through the door, my two youngest sons yelled “Daddyyyy!” as they jumped on me. Their older brother was resting on the couch amid empty Jell-O cups and crumpled juice boxes. While he dozed, my middle son, who’s 7, took me on a proud tour of his house—the playroom, his bedroom, the guest quarters. “This is where you can stay tonight, Daddy,” he said pointing to the bed. Of all the boys, he had been the most ecstatic over my presence. There was a hope in his voice, like a long-requested prayer was about to be answered as he stood there holding my hand.
My stomach went sick. In a short while, the happiness in his face would be erased by the crushing reality that I would be leaving him again. Ignoring this, I smiled back, trying to remain focused on the bliss of the present rather than on the imminent future—a moment I think my son still knew was coming despite the optimism in his heart.
The instant I got on my knees and gripped his shoulders a few hours later, tears spilled down his cheeks. “Son…” I could barely cough out the words; the lump I was choking on wouldn’t let me.
“Dad, I miss you more than you know!” he sobbed, throwing his arms around me.
I could never imagine the grief from losing a child, but in some ways, having to say goodbye to my sons time and again, never sure of when our next chance to hug will come, feels almost as devastating. These gut-wrenching emotions play over and over in a hellish loop every time I have to walk away.
We held each other tightly. A tear streaked from my eye as I whispered that I missed him too. “Everyday,” I said, squeezing him. “Everyday.” I made all the promises I could, wanting to make more, but knowing I held no sway over the innumerable circumstances working against my power to ever keep them.
After 15 minutes and many hugs later—the final one shared next to the driver’s side door of my rental—I backed out of the driveway. I could see the red rimming my son’s eyes as I waved to him, and he reciprocated the gesture with a withering feebleness.
Driving away, a desperation overcame me at the notion that our separation would be permanent, and I cursed myself for creating such a mess. This act of self-pity reminded me of what my father had said earlier about me being tougher than him. I replayed the axe cutting into Dad’s leg—the metal against the bone—and I recalled his strength to keep going despite the pain.
The image of this stopped me from focusing on my self-imposed state of helplessness, and acted as a catalyst sparking a forgotten determination from a fundamental thought. Emotional pain might outweigh the physical, but we still have to ignore those feelings as we draw from that same internal place of strength that helps us cope with either one. Sometimes we may need to delve deeper in order to find that place; and sometimes what we find there won’t be enough, leaving us with no option but to endure and continue limping forward.
—Photo stephendepolo/Flickr