A Father's Strength
Over the years my father and I, two not-super-affectionate individuals, came up with our own way of showing we cared. Whenever we would pass by each other, I would hold up my hand as if to give him high five and he would raise his hand to receive it. However, instead of giving him a normal high five, I would brace my entire body and propel my hand forward with all the strength my 5’2’’ frame could muster. Continuing with our ritual, my father would then recoil away from me, shake out his hand, and let out an exaggerated cry as he walked away from me. It never actually hurt him. Looking at my father’s hands, the first word that comes to mind is strong. The color of walnuts, his hands are the size of two baseball mitts. Differentiating a decade’s worth of callouses on his fingers or his palms is impossible. The skin there is so thick and rough that the entirety of each hand could be called one large callous. If it wasn’t for the multiple times my mother and I had pulled out slivers of metal from them—remainders of a long day’s work—I wouldn’t believe his skin was possible to break through.
I often tell my father that he missed his true calling in theatre. He has a very dramatic spirit which makes him an incredible storyteller and sometimes an exasperating jokester. This means we don’t take every word that comes out of his mouth at face value. When he began claiming his right shoulder was in pain, we thought he was once again being dramatic or that he might just be trying to get a sympathy massage from my mother. Sadly, one day quickly turned into weeks, where it was hard for my dad to get out of bed. His doctor finally diagnosed him with osteoarthritis and explained that although the pain could be reduced with lifestyle changes, physical therapy, and medication, it would never fully go away.
I thought I was aware of my dad’s mortality. In a sociology class, I learned that the strenuous physical activity my dad did at work lowered his life expectancy, and I knew he already took medications for other ailments. No matter how strong and stubborn my dad appeared to be, I was aware of the facts. However, it only truly hit home the next time I raised my hand and unthinkingly slammed it against my fathers, where instead of his usual playful shout, he groaned and cursed as genuine pain made his face crumple.
Breathtaking fear hit me at that moment. It was devastating to see the epitome of strength—my dad—become so frail. A layer of gnawing guilt compounded this devastation when I read that the repetitive movements and heavy-lifting required at his job likely contributed to the wear and tear of his bones and would continue to do so. The thought that my dad’s pain was a consequence of the sacrifices he made for his family weighed heavily on my heart and conscience. I spent hours researching how to alleviate his pain and since millions of people have to deal with osteoarthritis every day, I was able to come up with many possibilities. As for the validity of these options, some were backed by science while others only had anecdotal evidence, but we were willing to try everything and anything. This included a disappointing non-inflammatory diet, kinesiology tape in any color except pink, various bitter teas and pungent oils, a pure copper necklace turned bracelet to fit an oversized wrist, and even an eerie-looking green paste claiming to be made out of scorpion venom.
Slowly, my father seemed to get better, but I was only reassured once we had our first visit with the physical therapist. The lady was stocky with cheerful lines around her eyes. She handed my father a small machine and told him to squeeze it as hard as he could. The resulting number confused her and she asked my father to do it again. Again, confused by the results she tried it out for herself and even asked my mother to try it. After more attempts and a battery change, the lady told us that even with osteoarthritis my dad still had more strength remaining in his dominant arm than most people with healthy bones had. I laughed with my parents as the lady recorded my dad’s measurements. I realized my dad’s strength should not be measured by a number generated by a machine or by his physical capabilities on any given day. It should be measured by the decades of perseverance and sacrifice that demonstrate an enduring soul-deep strength.
By Maria Jacome
Illustrations done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Maya Hilbert for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/