Rough week
Posted: February 20th, 2009 | Filed under: Essays | 61 Comments »
You had to know this has been a rough week because I have not yet written about Jose Guillen pulling out his own ingrown toe nail. You all should know me well enough by now to know that only an emergency or vile illness could keep from writing THAT post.
Well, it happens that both those things emerged this week. Simply, my father had emergency surgery late Tuesday night after his small intestine had been nicked during a non-emergency surgery he had the week before. I will not bore you with all the details, but suffice it to say that really, really bad things happen when stuff from the small intestine leak into the stomach. It was touch and go for a while. Even now, there are a few complications — including an erratic heartbeat — that he has to overcome, though all in all he seems to be doing much better and should get to leave the Intensive Care Unit in the next 24 hours (we hope).
That, obviously, was bad enough. But, being an optimistic sort, I actually saw this as a good week because Dad has recovered pretty well and there is a lot of reason to hope.
Then, Thursday night, I got hit with the worst case of stomach flu I’ve ever had in my life. This, of course, is not relevant in any larger way, but as I have told a few people today: It’s stunning how little you think about anyone else when you are violently throwing up every 30 minutes. I generally seem to be getting over that — you guys ever heard of medicine called Emetrol? — and I would like to think the worst is behind me. And I do not mean that literally. I hope.
I’ve written about my father here before, but I think it’s worth remembering in times like these that fathers can do anything. I know my father can fix anything. My father can juggle. My father can do magic. My father was a chess champion. My father was a semi-professional soccer player in Poland. My father knew precisely how to beat me in tennis. My father undoubtedly has the world record in Tetris. My father would be the writer in the family, as he often says, if only he could spell. My father came to America in 1964 with my mother, and they raised three sons, and they made a life.
There are two stories that I’ve been thinking a lot about this week. One is the mailbox story. A few months ago, my father was driving home and a squirrel ran in front of the car. He swerved to miss it and he ran right into a guy’s mailbox, knocked it down. My father — being my father — got out of the car and went to knock on the door to tell the family he had busted up their mailbox. Nobody was home. He waited a little while, but nobody came home. He was about to leave a note, when he came up with another idea. He drove to Lowe’s (or Home Depot, can’t remember) and he bought a new mailbox. Then he went back to the house, pulled out the old mailbox, put in a new one. That’s Dad.
The second story is one that I think about all the time. We were at an amusement park — Cedar Point, probably — and we were standing around a shooting gallery. We had probably been around that shooting gallery a half dozen times in my childhood, I would always shoot at the targets (and always miss — I’m a terrible shot) and he would watch and offer advice and so on. But he would never shoot.
This time, I gave him the rifle and said, “You shoot.” So he put in a quarter, and he hit the target that made the skunk’s tail go up. He hit the target that made the piano player play. He hit the target that cracked the mirror. He hit target after target after target, never missing, he was such a remarkable shot that after a while strangers were rushing over and saying, “Hit the dog,” or “Hit the barmaid.” And he would. It was the greatest display of shooting I have ever seen, including Olympic competitions.
After it was over, I asked Dad where he learned to shoot like that. He said, “In the army,” and that was that, he didn’t say any more, he did not have to say any more. Dad has rarely talked about his time in the Army. He has rarely talked about his childhood at all. I’ve often thought about doing a “Slumdog MIllionaire” type book about my father … starting with all these amazing things he could do and then going back to find out how he learned how to do them. I don’t know if I’ll ever write it though. In many ways, the mystery is the best part. My father, like your father I hope, can do everything. Well, I don’t know if Dad can remove his own ingrown toenail. He’s been through enough already this week.
Loading ...
Hey Joe, I am new to the blog but I felt like I had to tell you how great the blog is. Keep up the good work. I hope your father pulls through.
Joe, hope your dad gets better soon. The heart can be a tricky thing; believe me, I know. I lost my dad to a coronary when I was a young man, so I can empathize. And yes, he could do almost everything, too.
Anytime you want to take a break from baseball to write about your dad is totally fine with me. More proof why this is a great blog, and why JP is such a terrific writer.
I will now call my dad.
Joe, here’s hoping your Dad makes a swift recovery. Hope you can still make it down to Surprise this year. I always look forward to your Royals previews. I’m interested in how Banny’s approaching this season. All the best to your family.
Great little story, and the memory of the rifle game at Cedar Point (I can verify that by your detailed description that yes, it was Cedar Point), I almost feel like I was there that day when your Dad was picking off the targets.
The piano player was always my personal favorite.
Well wishes to your dad, Joe. Wrap him in a snuggie…couldn’t hurt, right?
Great post Joe. I hope your dad keeps improving.
I don’t see what the big deal is about the ingrown toenail. Just soak the toe in epsom salts and hot water, cover it in neosporin, and then slap a bandaid on it. I thought ball players were supposed to be tough.
Joe,
Hope you and your father get well soon.
I hope your Dad keeps recovering.
Speedy recovery to you and your father, and hope you’re down in Arizona soon attempting to enter that ridiculous In N Out parking lot.
Bruce Springsteen wants your father to get well (as indicated by post #2). If the Boss wants it to happen, it will be so.
Joe,
Best to your father and you.
i’m not new to the blog, and i came in here to say the same thing as anthony did in the first response.
my dad can fix anything mechanical (and nothing electronic), is a great shot (with a rifle and a basketball), taught me how to throw a curveball AND a knuckleball (but was a better power hitter than me… he was in no way responsible for my julio-franco-stance-meets-tony-gwynn-follow-through swing (i was a great contact hitter, but i can count on one hand the times i hit a ball over the outfielders’ heads), nor was he responsible for the fact that, once you reach a certain level, there really isn’t much demand for slap-hitting corner infielders with no speed, no matter how great their defensive play…)
actually, he used to look at my swing and make that hank hill sound. some of you know what i’m talking about… you know, the one followed by, “that boy ain’t right.” he was proud of how i played in the field, though, and the fact i always got to hit third until everyone else my age started hitting the ball a lot harder than i did. and even after that he was still proud because i wanted to play and i never hesitated to dive for a liner or break up a double play.
it’s funny, the story is about someone else’s dad and in some ways isn’t that similar – my dad’s family came over to the states in the 1600s from england. my dad grew up the exact opposite end of ohio, in fact, as cleveland. he never served in the army (tried to enlist after his brother was drafted, was turned down due to flat feet). i am almost proud to say that wouldn’t know what a soccer ball was if you hit him in the head with it… yet, somehow, i have a feeling that they are pretty similar guys in the ways that matter.
and i think i’ll give him a call tonight because it’s been a while since we’ve talked… he’s got a busy life in retirement and i’ve been busy with work and travelling and everything else, but it’s occasionally important to remember what’s really important.
My thoughts are with you and your dad
When I was 17 or so the water pump on my 1970 LeMans went out. My dad bought a rebuilt one from the auto supply store and then he sat in his lawn chair and walked me through the entire process as I pulled out the old pump and put in the rebuilt one. “Now, do you see four bolts?” “Yes.” “Take those out and then carefully…” It was amazing. I don’t think he got out of that chair one time.
Yeah, my dad could fix anything. He was the finest man I’ve ever known, unfortunately he passed away when I was 32. Cherish the time you have, Joe. And be that kind of dad to your girls, too. (And I shall now step down from my soap box)
My thoughts and prayers are with your father and your entire family.
Joe
This is a beautiful post. Prayers for your dad from our whole family!
Joe,
Just wanted to send my best wishes for your Dad’s speedy recovery.
Hey Joe long-time reader first-time poster…just wanted to let you know how much I look forward to your posts. Not that you are interested but I’m from out in North central Kansas not far from your wife’s hometown. Anyway my wife and I were in KC (we usually drive over at least once a year) getting ready to fly out on vacation and I wanted a book to read on the plane ride, what a perfect time to buy Soul of Baseball. We were out at the legends, shopping, killing time, the book store out there BooksAmillion or whatever did not have a single copy and when pressed the staff said they don’t carry that book. Now I’m just a small town hick, but I was floored. I figured there would be a whole section dedicated to the Poz and a big fancy display of your book…anyway, ordered it on amazon last night, I guess I’ve officially given up on modern book stores. What a waste. I wish your dad well and I too am lucky to have one of those fathers…
Best wishes to you and your dad.
Oh, yeah? I bet your dad can’t beat up my dad.
OK, we’ll give him some time to recover and get out of intensive care. Then it’s go time.
Hope your father gets well soon. Thanks, as always for the blog.
Posnanskis younger and elder: hope you both feel better soon.
I’d love to read the Slumdog Dad (or should I say, Father Millionaire?) book.
Great post! From the sound of it maybe your dad should have done the surgery on himself!
Best wishes to him and the rest of your family Joe!
My Dad’s coming up tomorrow to help me install my wife’s Valentine’s present – closet organizers. He is coming because he is an electrician (among other things) and my wife wouldn’t trust me to move the light.
I said a prayer when I read Margo’s blog that you were there due to the fact that your Dad was sick.
I’ll say another one right now.
Emetrol? I think my wife tried to take that for sickness during pregnancy but couldn’t get past the taste. Best part was, she got to taste it twice.
Best wishes to your Dad, Joe. This post hit close to home for me on several levels.
First, I lost my Dad almost two years ago to emphysema at far too early an age, and I’ve struggled a great deal with it since he was pretty much indestructible for most of my life. Here’s hoping your Dad has many years left with you.
My Dad also had some mysterious skills from his army days that were rarely mentioned, mostly exotic languages that would awe us as kids and went completely unexplained for the most part.
And finally, I too remember Cedar Point’s shooting gallery. We took our sixth grade class trip there all the way from Ft. Wayne, Indiana, and I discovered that I have some preternatural shooting ability that I can’t explain to this day. With no lessons or experience of any kind, whether I’m holding a pea-shooter, an amusement park gallery gun, or a .30-06, I seem to have this innate ability to hit whatever I’m shooting at, and at pretty much every distance I’ve ever tried. It’s an absolutely meaningless skill given my choice of profession (not the military or SWAT) and hobbies (not hunting), but I guess it’s nice to have any skill, even if it’s one that must be much easier than it seems if some untrained schmuck like me can do it well.
Anyway, this post struck me as something I could have written myself if only I could, you know, write, so thanks for taking care of that for me.
Best wishes to your father, sounds like it’s going well.
This blog is awesome. Thanks so much Joe for putting together something that brings me this much enjoyment.
Here’s hoping both you and your Dad make a speedy recovery.
Sending positive thoughts your father’s way Joe. One thing. I say, don’t wait, ask him the questions, sneak a tape recorder in your pocket too if you can. To capture his voice and cadence. Ask him to tell you some of those stories. The army, his childhood. And listen. One day, hopefully very very far in the future. You’ll be really glad you did.
Been there, Joe, in the ICU waiting room with nothing but memories and thoughts.
The wonderful thing about ICUs is they usually do the job at hand and people get out and get on with life. But, damn! What a process.
I don’t need to share Dad stories here, but your post spawned a lot of memories.
It’s a well-worn cliche that sports is a metaphor for life. Skill and luck and chance and failure and talent and hope and defeat and resilience and brains and rules and the other guys got scholarships, too….
Pavarotti used to speak of his voice in the Third Person. I’ve frequently wondered what it must be like to wake up in the world and discover you’re Bruce Springsteen or Frank Sinatra or Aretha Franklin. There’s that gift inside of us most of us never quite recognize or realize. Usually our parents gave us that gift.
Aretha credits her father for what she became. She gives him far more credit — and not enough — than he deserves. Y’know, like real life and our parents.
I hope Jose Guillen’s kid remembers the ingrown toenail story.
And I suspect your Dad will remember it for a long time, if only to say…. “So?”
I love my dad and think he’s the best but my dad definitely does not have a quarter of the skills, or experiences, that your father has.
Best wishes to your dad, Joe.
My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family , Joe.
Good luck to you and your dad, Joe.
@RPA (#13):
No demand for slap-hitting corner infielders? Contact Bill Smith, Twins GM. He’ll give you a signing bonus based on decent defense alone.
Best to your dad, Joe.
It’s not the first time, but this post brought tears to my eyes. What an extraordinary man. What an amazing father. As usual, you humbly didn’t think to mention one of his all-time greatest successes. He raised you, Joe, and for that I am exceedingly grateful.
I’ve been lost in thought, thinking of my father, for quite a while now. The tears have not subsided still. I have to tell my Dad how much I love him. I’m going to go write that letter now. I only hope that I can summon just a sliver of your authentic eloquence.
Awesome stories. parents are great. both of my parents had cancer this year. this past wednesday they had petscans scheduled for same time at the same place. funny world.
Joe,
Just wanted to let you know that you and your family are in our thoughts and prayers. I don’t know your dad, but he must be damn proud to have a son like you.
Hope he pulls through.
Keeping your family in our thoughts Joe.
Joe – my Mom and Dad live in Orlando and two weeks ago she went to the hospital with an upset stomach and after a couple of days underwent surgery for a hole in her colon. She is still in intensive care. So – I know exactly what you are gong through. You have become my favorite blogger, favorite sportswriter and one of my favorite writers overall in the past year. To read about your father’s illness being so darn similar to what my Mom is dealing with was striking. Let’s both hope our parents get over their humps soon. Go Twins.
My dad could fix anything, too. When I was a little kid, my video game (Odyssey 2!) broke, and my dad took it apart, soldered something (?), and voila, it worked for years. He still does most of the work on his own vehicles, although this is getting harder and harder with all the modern stuff on cars these days.
As I get older, I find that I too can fix things–of all sorts. This discovery, renewed time and time again, is often the product of cheapness on my part. Necessity is the Mother of Invention. I think that people who grew up poor–like my dad–learned this at a much younger age.
Joe,
Just wanted to add my thoughts and prayers for your dad. I’ll be thinking of him as well as you and your family.
Thank you, Joe, for reminding all of us of the realities of our most important relationships. So much has been written, in prose and verse, about the uniqueness of the father/son relationship. Yours is no more nor less special than any other, just more prescient at the moment. Relationships, like life, are fleeting and all too short. Treasure them…. each and every day. God bless you, your Dad, and the rest of your loved ones. You all will be in my prayers.
Hope your Dad is doing much better, Joe. Ingrain toenail or not.
Good luck to your dad, you, and your whole family!
Prayers for your dad and your stomach. Thanks for the post.
Best wishes to all the Posnanskis. , , ,
You and your father are in my thoughts Joe. And I hope you do write something about your father’s life, even if it’s not a book–it would make a great essay.
Just wanted to second what Justyo said — INSIST that he tell you the stories — childhood, army, what have you. And write it down. Many years from now, you’ll be glad you did. Don’t make the mistake I did.
My dad could do anything, too. Then he got Alzheimer’s. Now, most of the time, it’s like he’s not even there. Sometimes, we see him, by the look in his eyes. Most of the time, no.
I guess what I’m saying is, don’t wait too long.
The Royals will be fine, they’re improved this season. I forsee .500 in their future.
I’m anxious to see your Oscar picks….our families Oscar picks are due shortly and I really wanted to compare notes with you before having to submit them!!
Joe, Two exits no waiting is the worst way to spend the weekend, hope you’re feeling better. Thoughts and prayers to your dad and family.
Joe -
Best wishes for a quick recovery for both you and your dad.
On a side note, my dad wouldn’t know a hammer if it whacked him on the head, and couldn’t fix anything. Couldn’t juggle, do magic, or play chess.
But he did teach me a great many things, including how to play baseball, tennis and golf. And he worked 2 jobs to put me and my siblings through college – so he taught me how to be diligent and hard working.
I’ll never forget throwing baseballs with him as he grilled steaks on a summer evening … baseball glove on one hand and grill fork in the other.
It is awesome that you can post something about your dad and immediately cause everyone who reads your work to think about their father and family and remember the good things.
I, too, will call my Dad today.
Thanks Joe … for helping to remind us of our Dads.
Best wishes, my prayers for full recoveries for you and your Dad, Joe. Mine would have been 81 last week were he still with us. As many have said, don’t lose the opportunity to ask those questions. I did and regret it still that I don’t know how he knew and could do everything.
Joe, I love your blog, check it every day. I hope your dad gets better soon and that he’s as proud of your accomplishments as you are of his. My thoughts and prayers are with you both.
Sorry to hear about your dad. I hope he has a speedy recovery, my thoughts are with you.
Here’s hoping for a speedy recovery for all the Posnanski family that needs it.
My dad was pretty remarkable too. M.D., could build anything, could fix most anything but time is money, used to play money bridge with some guys who would later win world championships but gave it up when my mom said it was bridge or the marriage. Great singing voice, could do accents, and made house calls on his indigent patients until the insurance companies forced him to stop. And perhaps the hardest thing he ever did was to come up with a ticket splitting scheme that satisfied eight doctors and lawyers that they were all getting a fair share of our Dodger season tickets. But he couldn’t juggle, and he couldn’t play chess… or at least he couldn’t play chess well enough once I reached age 14; the first game I beat him was the last game of chess we played (which didn’t much bother me; I gave up chess for bridge and then bridge for Dungeons and Dragons, which has become my career). I miss him greatly; treasure the time you still have with your dad.
My Dad’s been in the ICU for 3 of the last 4 weeks. I’m considerably younger than you — 29 — but over the last month, I’ve spent many an hour thinking about how awesome my Dad is, and how lucky I’ve been to have him this long. He will probably make it out of this alive (probably never walk again, but Dad in a wheelchair is better than none at all), and this story really hit home. Thanks, Joe.