Without His Voice to Speak His Mind

My Father, Mr. Cool Man

When my nephew Gabriel met my father for the first time, he was reluctant to converse with him because my father engaged little if at all with him. Gabriel was two and had just discovered his own voice, learning new words at an exponential rate. Even so, he just sat silent and observed my father, whose body lay stiff in bed, from a short distance away.

On this recent visit, I wanted to have a conversation with my father.  

About how I decided to propose to Matthew. How I had decided through thick and thin, I had chosen him, when I had turned away from marriage from others in the past. 

Perhaps he would have offered advice about the difficulty of relationship and talked about the beauty of what he had found with Florencia.  

About how I have found happiness in working with new Moms in the early moments when they look into their babe's eyes as if to say to him or her, "I couldn't have imagined a more pure love than this.  And yet here you are." Perhaps he would have voiced his pride in me, for finding not only a career that more than suited me but happiness in it as well.

About how much joy my niece and nephews bring me and how I wish they could really get to know him. Perhaps he would have looked at me sadly, of course, hoping for the same thing.  

But I couldn't.  Because conversations are one way in this relationship.

Nephew Gabriel growing up fast
The brains of this operation

Nephew "Budoy" a.k.a. Vincent
The charmer with that smile 

Niece "Jujubee" a.k.a. Julia
The strong-willed beauty

The possibility of conversation with Papa faded a good while ago.  The deterioration of the area in his brain that controlled speech made sure of that.  We can blame OPCA. Because of this, his responses are usually one's speculations of what he might say.  

With the eventual need for a tracheostomy, the possibility of any decipherable vocalization was severely diminished.  When words could not be used, we moved to facial expressions. Raised eyebrows to express excitement. Large wide smile to express happiness. Down-turned eyes to express sadness. Then that means of communicating slowly went away too. Today, talks with him have been reduced to the occasional hand squeeze or thumbs up to indicate YES, or a flattened hand as if he were to gesture "so-so" to indicate NO.  And over a year's time, he moves even more slowly to answer yes or no questions.  

In 2011, when hand and arm gestures were easier to perform.  As I studied in my father's room one day, I would turn around to see his arms/hands static, in these positions - suspended in the air for 5 min at a time.  The whole thing amused me.  So I did what any normal person would do, I photographed it.  The compilation of which looks like: My father conducting his first symphony!

In the early years after his OPCA diagnosis, as speech became more difficult for my father, I tried to understand my father's experience. To be honest it was frustrating. A frustration I recalled in a Twilight Zone episode I saw dozens of years ago as a child…or…maybe it was something I had seen in one of my many books of eerie stories.  A man lays alone, regaining consciousness and finds that he had survived a devastating accident.  His thoughts are clear. He IS alive but finds he's not able to move.  So he calls out for help.  Efforts to attract the attention of passers-by don't produce results. They pass quietly as if not to hear him.  Not even a glance his way.  What he comes to realize is that, in fact, they're not able to.  His thoughts, though clear, are trapped in his mind and the shell of his own body.  So he continues to lay screaming loudly for help, unheard.  To my Dad's misfortune, his experience may have been just like this man's, except now he has surrendered to the limitations of his illness.

Philippines Trip 2012 with Mateo

A year and a half ago, Matthew traveled with me to the Philippines.  He was meeting my father for the first time.  There were so many ways I had imagined the encounter to go.  I had hopes that through short "exchanges", each would communicate an understanding that they are each an important person in my life.  That Matt would talk about how we met or would use his unfailing wit (the type of humor my Dad would have enjoyed) to elicit an attempted smile from my father. But they did not. The introduction was brief. And after greeting my father, Matt stood speechless at the foot of my Father's bed. This had caused tension between me and Matt. I had had an expectation and it wasn't met. But how could I really fault Matt? A relationship isn't built in an instant, even when all forms of communication are available to us. When words aren't exchanged, body language tells a story. Matt had neither to work with.

During this trip, I watched him through the night 3 times.  And asked him things like, "Papa, do you need to be suctioned?" "Papa, are you okay? "Papa, are you having trouble sleeping?"  Then I stared.  Examining his face as though anticipating a small gesture that could be taken for an intended response. And much like I do when I have "conversations" with the newborns I care for at work, I imagine what the likely response is.  

During each night I cared for him, I laid in the bed butted up to his, Flor's bed.  And as if for reassurance that everything was okay, I held his hand as I "slept" and smiled each time I felt an occasional squeeze. I love you too Papa.  And a few times, it brought me to tears.

The handsome Villalas Men in my life and 
Grandma Gloria.  Camp Lejeune, NC  1978