Papa Bear--Over and Out

Authored by Kristi 

For a time during the early 2000s, my parents lived within a half mile of me, my husband, and daughters. My dad and I would go for walks at 5a. each weekday. We had little, cheap walkie-talkies. We’d confirm our plans for walking. When he could no longer walk, we’d confirm my plan to come over for coffee with our walkie-talkies.

“Papa Bear calling Baby Bear. Come in Baby Bear. Over.” “Baby Bear here. What time is coffee? Over.” “Same time as it always is. Over.” “(a snicker and smile) Baby Bear will have her ass there at the standard, agreed-upon time. Over.” “(snicker) Baby Bear better have her ass here at the agreed upon time or else the coffee will be cold. Over.” “No worries, I will. Baby Bear is over and out!” “Papa Bear. Over and out."

Each morning for a while… not a minute past 6am… I used my key to open the front door. He was literally pouring my coffee–looking over his shoulder at me while he poured. As I crossed the living room to the kitchen, he put toast on a napkin with my coffee in front of the same chair each day. He sat in the same spot each day, with the addition of the daily newspaper. Then he placed a bowl of peanut butter, mixed with jelly, in between us. 

Reluctantly, I left around 6:45a to go to work. I carried a pit in my stomach every day that I left him there–mentally thinking about when I’d see him again-–or say I love you. We never had. When we were kids, the closest we came to that warm exchange was saying, “Goodnight, Daddy.” And having him say goodnight too. Well, he’d call us Baby, Girl, or Gal sometimes–but that was about it. I just don’t remember many, if any, “I love yous.” 

I always admired my uncle, who was Daddy’s best friend, for being openly loving with his kids. I asked my uncle how or why he said "I love you," and gave hugs. He said, "I just saw that our Daddy didn't do that and I wanted it to be different." 

One morning, when I arrived at Papa and Baby Bears’ agreed-upon time, he was reaching to pick up the newspaper from the stoop. That meant he was running a little late because the paper was always on the kitchen table when I arrived. 

As he bent over, he did a complete roll out the door. I ran up the sidewalk–barely putting my mini-van in Park. Part of me wondered whether I had seen what I saw because I’d never seen my dad be anything except steady on his feet. The front door was wide open. But he was already sitting in what was "my" chair. I imagined that he'd grabbed for the nearest chair when he stumbled back into the house. 

His forehead was skint and clammy. I cleaned him up and put a little ointment on his scratch. He continued to stare down the hallway–not resisting any of my dotings, which was also unusual. I didn't really ask him what happened. But I told him that I’d go sort some things up at work and that I’d be right back after that. 

Then, it was time. Not time to go to work. But while he was seated, his forehead was about the same height as my chin. I put my hand on his shoulder, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “I love you, Daddy.” He nodded, still looking down the hallway, and said, “I love you too.”