Sidetracked

Musical Memoirs Explores Birth and Rebirth With the Everly Brothers

I have an idea why my dad’s musical tastes never evolved past the Everly Brothers, but it’s just a theory: I think in his mind that was the prime of his life. And he didn’t want to move beyond that era.

So even though he was close to the Beatles in age, he never got into their music. In fact, I’ll bet he couldn’t have named a single Rolling Stones song. And he certainly was lost to the music of the 70’s and 80’s.

In fact, I distinctly remember one time when he walked into the living room as I was watching the Culture Club video for “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” on MTV.

“What the hell is that?” he said, as if he had just witnessed an alien landing.

“His name’s Boy George,” I answered.

He just shook his head in dismay. I just let it go.

I always said my dad would get cirrhosis of the liver. You just don’t abuse a body like that without repercussions. Yet, when I found out he finally did get it, I was still surprised. Partly because it took so long and partly because my dad was sort of a tough guy, and I thought he might somehow beat the odds.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t had much contact with him the three previous years. After an embarassing restaurant incident, I decided I couldn’t tolerate the drinking any longer.

But then, suddenly, he was in a coma, and there was a chance that I would never talk to him again. That the final memory would be of me walking out on him.

When I called the hospital to check on him, no one would tell me what his condition was. In fact, one nurse, citing privacy laws, said she wasn’t even supposed to acknowledge that he was there.

Luckily, I caught a sympathetic ear, who, in a hushed voice, gave me an update. She said his condition was typical for a person in his state. The normal process.

“So . . .” I said, gingerly. “Is he dying?”

She answered very assuredly: “Yes.”

It was a matter of days, she said. Maybe less.

So that was it. I wasn’t even going to get a chance to say goodbye.

Even though he was still alive, I went home and started grieving. And every time the phone rang, I assumed it was the death notice.  Because once you’re in a coma with cirrhosis, I’d read, you don’t come out.

That’s just the process.

But then something amazing happened. My sister called me at work one day and said, “Dad’s out of the coma!”

I’m not one to talk about miracles, but this sure seemed like one. I immediately left work, and on the way home, I pumped my fist and shouted, “YES!”

The first time I called him, he sounded groggy, out of it. But the next time, he was lucid and clear.

Back from the dead.

“I was almost a goner,” he said with a laugh.

Not only was he out of the coma, but he was apparently on his way to a recovery. In fact, he was talking about going back home within days.

If he was going to stick around much longer, I told him, he was going to have to take care of himself. Then he said the words I’d longed to hear almost all of my life:

“No more booze.”

He’d never even acknowledged it was a problem before. Now he vowed — emphatically — to kick the habit that had fractured my family so long ago.

I told him I loved him and hung up the phone, feeling great about my dad. Then I thought about the possibilities of a new relationship. A rebirth.

A few days later, I was at work again when my brother called.

“Has anyone else called you?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Something had to be wrong; my brother never calls me at work.

“Nobody has called you?”

“No,” I said. “What’s the bad news?”

There was a slight pause and then:

“Dad passed away.”

I just sat there, unable to talk, a golf ball-sized lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. 

It didn’t help when I learned later that my dad had gone out in a panic. But what’s worse is that all the possibilities — the promise of a new relationship, of a new dad – had slipped away. Now I could only imagine what might have happened. Because he would never walk the earth again.

A few days ago, I was thinking about this when I grabbed my ukulele and said to my daughter: “Ok, Sunny – now I’m going to play you a song that my boppa used to like.” And I started to strum the opening chords to “All I Have to Do Is Dream” by the Everly Brothers.

I had just made it to the chorus when Sunny interrupted me.

“Boppa? When you go to heaven, are you going to see your dad again?”

Naturally, I couldn’t finish the song.

Sunny never got to meet her grandfather. But if there’s one consolation, at least my dad knew she was on the way. After he came out of the coma, I told him that we were expecting.

He told me he was happy for me. And, of course, I was elated to share the news.

Six months after death, there was life.

While I’m not a huge Everly Brothers fan, I now feel an obligation to share the music with Sunny.

If I can only muster the strength to get through it.

Posted on July 22nd, 2009 by Pat
Filed under: Songs in the Key of Life: My Musical Memoirs