A Visitor

Now I'll digress, within the story. This is pretty important, pretty hard to write about.

I've been in about a week. While my hemoglobin quivers at the 70's mark and the hematology department waits for an available surgery date, they keep plugging me full of blood, two units a day.

My energy is drained. Everything is slow.

One afternoon, I hear a knock and look to my right, towards the door.

It's my father.

I look to the left, out the window. And that's where I hold my gaze until my thoughts collect.

OK. Don't get excited. Just be polite. Just keep your heart rate down. Deep breaths.

I look back to my right. How long did I look out the window while he stood there?

"Come on in."

I'm cordial.

He enters and sits. He looks uncomfortable. I'm not sure why I feel bad, he should be. I don't remember much of the conversation. I'm formal. He asks about diet, suddenly concerned about me. Great. To little too late after "too late" was too late. He makes small talk. I make small talk back. I'm shocked at my emotional detachment. I really don't feel anything for this person. I've cut myself off.

I even remember the day I cut myself off.

It wasn't when I realized for myself, at 16, that seeing your son twice a year wasn't normal.

It wasn't even due to events a couple of years into my marriage with Vanessa. She, curious, contacted him, and a few months later he walked out on his second wife, my half-sisters and his business for another woman (disclaimer - when you're getting your information from an estranged second wife, things get distorted. But my sisters got the same treatment I got).

It wasn't even when I got the first Christmas card, almsot three years ago, from him and his new girlfriend, addressed to "Nialle Antypowich," which I tore up and threw on the floor in disgust and rage. I was pretty angry even still then.

No, It was two years ago, when I got the second Christmas card addressed to "Nialle Antypowich." I eyed the thing warily, sighed, and wrote "My name is Travnik" on the card. Then I sent it back to him. I hadn't heard from him since.


"Open the card, please."

Again, I sigh inwardly. I open it. There's some nice platitudes scrawled on the inside. I have no interest in reading these. Let's get this done.

"Your grandmother wants to see you. She's a great grandmother now. She wants to see her great grandchild. If that can happen, think about it... and you know, if you and I can... talk, that would be good."

Can't this guy recognize his own burnt bridges? Astounding.

I mumble something.

I'd love to deal with this. I really would. I don't have the blood right now. I don't want to scream, or give him a piece of my mind. I don't want to humiliate him or put him in his place. Forgiveness is a nebulous thing, and when you've forgiven someone but still clearly can't trust them, It's... awkward. What else can I call it?

He needs to know he doesn't have a place in my life. He needs to know it is not his grandson. And the rings that he gave my mother and she in turn gave to us because we were short on cash when we got married? He needs to know his daughter-in-law threw them away after she got to know him.

I can't trust. Not because it hurts, or because I'm scared. Because it's impossible. Too many burnt bridges. Bridge after bridge after bridge.

He leaves, I'm still polite. Detached. Later in the hall he'll lambaste my mother about "negative energy" being somehow connected "separating a son from his father." He apparently thinks this is connected to my illness.

Did I cease to be an adult? Do I not have a family? He's still dealing with my mother in proxy, like I was twelve.

Then he leaves. I'm not sure I'll see him again.

And I'm ok with that. Too much to deal with here.