Bionic Papa

Kristin Briones

25 February 2011

RD2

Growing up, there was always one person that made my weekends unforgettable.  My grandfather, Raymond Teves or “Papa” as I liked to call him always knew how to turn a boring day into one full of magic and wonder. [THESIS] I always saw him as a superhero. So, it was hard to watch him experience mortal things like the breakdown of his body and the contraction of a deathly disease. [THESIS]

Rays of sunlight radiated down on my face. The wind blew the leaves of the tangerine tree, leaving behind the scent of dirt and the ripe fruit. He lifted me onto the red plastic bench swing. Papa was wearing his light blue cotton shirt, he always wore it when he worked in the yard; his superhero costume. “Are you ready to swing,” he asked. I nodded my head. That was his signal. He carefully adjusted his faded brown cowboy hat, so it wouldn’t fall off his almost balding head. Then, he dusted off his dirt covered hands on his ripped up jeans, gave me a smile, and began to push. His strong hands griping onto the rusty metal bars. He made kooky faces as I swung towards him. Our laughter and the squeaking of the swing created a tune that I’ll never forget.

Above the swing set and fruit trees was the house that he and my Obachan shared with my Uncle and cousins.  The two-story mammoth was and still is one of the biggest homes on the block. The pale cream exterior looks pristine next to the browns, light taupe, and carnation pink of its neighbors.  Tucked away, off to the side, was a small garden.  He loved his garden and would spend hours weeding and tending the different types of flora.  I would walk in between the old cherry red, rusted Ford Thunderbird to get to him. He would sing made up songs to the tune of “Pussycat, Pussycat, Where have you been,” as he watered the mint and picked papayas. 

A few years after our days in the garden and playground, Papa was the same.  He was still strong enough to push me on the swings, but I was too old.  The jungle gym set rusted and started to fall apart.  The metallic paint began to peel and wash away after each batch of rain clouds decided to roll by.  A slippery patch of water and a loose wooden step changed everything.  He fell to his knees and lay there like the cracked plastic bench swing, absolutely helpless. 

After the fall, he traded in his “super suit” and rubber slippers for black Velcro strapped shoes and a cane.  Papa used to tower over people with his six foot stature, but his current condition caused him to limp and hunch over.  He spent less time outside, but found ways of entertaining himself inside.  Being a “jack of all trades” he fixed everything and anything that would break. Doctors suggested because of his weight and the extent of his injury that he should consider a knee and hip replacement.  After the operations or the installation of robot parts, I teased him, calling him “bionic Papa.” He would smile and laugh wholeheartedly each time. 

The cane and robot parts were only the beginning, foreshadowing omens of the evil villain yet to come. I was filled with confusion as my mom proceeded to tell me what the phone call was about.  I had never seen her act that way before.  She seemed like a lost child, her face contorted into a mask of confusion, sadness, and fear.  A simple examination would’ve prevented the horror movie my life was about to become. No one in my family was prepared for this moment.  We had no history with the “killer,” yet it had chosen us anyway.  

“Papa has just been diagnosed with cancer,” she said in a monotone voice.  I stared at her, expecting comfort, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at me.  At that moment, the color drained from my face and I became ill.  My stomach began to do flips and I could feel the vomit coating the back of my throat. We trusted his doctor, but he was a lazy liar.

We each put our lives in the hands of doctors thinking that they’ll be able to diagnose and cure us.  They’ll slap a $5,000 band aid on the “boo boo” and hand us a cherry lollipop or SpongeBob sticker.  They go to school for a very long time to learn how to save us.  They take the Hippocratic Oath, swearing that they’ll keep us out of harm’s way and will do anything and everything to bring us back from the brink of death.  

The cancer hit hard and fast.  He told me he wasn’t scared, but I knew he just didn’t want me to worry.  The hospital visits became more frequent. He would sleep only during the day and would disappear in the middle of the night.  He would drive to Pearlridge and sleep in the parking lot.  I saw this as him trying to escape his demise, his way that he coped. None of use knows what he would do in the car. I can only imagine how lonely and powerless he must’ve felt. The constant care and anxiety started to take a toll on my Obachan.  She began to lose weight rapidly, the stress had started to suck her dry.  The decision had been made.  Hospice was the only option in sight.  

Hospice has the illusion of looking like a hospital.  Nurses would run around checking temperatures and blood pressure.  The white halls and rooms smelled of ammonia and bleach.  Silence was prominent and awkward.   The “clickity-clack” of the bottoms of shoes on the wooden floors reverberated down the halls. Everyone would speak in hushed tones, like any loud sound would be death’s calling card.  Though, there was something missing.  No doctors set foot through the door.  Any type of resuscitation was forbidden.  The patients fates had been sealed and the only way for them to leave would be in a body bag.

He refused to give in.  The pain became so unbearable, but he would say nothing.  He disguised his discomfort of his alter ego.  Putting on a happy face and cracking jokes to lighten the dire mood.  As I watched him in his reclining bed, denial began to whisper in my ear. The man that lay in front of me was stronger than this.  I closed my eyes, thinking that when I opened them he’d be all better.  This was the same guy that would go hunting barefoot in the mountains.  The same guy that gutted a huge boar with his bare hands because the wild monster had killed his dog.  The same man that cheered on Hulk Hogan, believing that TV wrestling was real.

I opened my eyes, but nothing had changed.  He still lay there. Tossing and turning in his green gown.  His grayish skin barely clinging to his emaciated skeleton. Obachan ran over with a pink kidney shaped bowl as he coughed up some mucus. He had lost his appetite, his ability to breathe on his own, and basically his life.  He was now a shell, a host for the carcinoma to feed off of.

Cancer rubbed its maniacal hands together and cackled at the top of its lungs, its diabolic scheme had been a success.  The villain had conquered over another hero.  The disease is unstoppable and we’re so far from finding its kryptonite. 

In the end, the pain was too much for me.  I watched in horror as the corporeal disease ripped him to shreds. The only thing holding me together was knowing that his time on earth was worth something.  He was a prize winning pigeon racer, a loving husband, a strict but concerned father, and an amazing grandfather.  At least his pain was finally over, he’s now at peace in heaven.  I know my time to join him will be years from now. Hopefully, God will let us recreate that sunny day on the swings.