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Dedication to Dad
Dedication to Dad
Sep
06
Monday
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2009 Book of The Year Winner
"On the Brink of Bliss and Insanity" wins Silver Award in The Book of the Year Awards
in the Fiction Romance category.
For more information click here.
Paris Book Festival 2010 Winner
Congratulations to As Nora Jo Fades Away winning the 2010 Paris Book Festival Award for Best Biography/Autobiography.
To read the list of winners go to http://www.parisbookfestival.com/winners_2009.html
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“You’re So Nice”  I am the mother of an amazingly beautiful, silly, bright and quirky three-year-old girl, so I’d be a fool to pretend anything is more “important” to me than my sweet Jazzlyn Jo. But there was this day—not too deep in the past—that would be deemed by most as “ordinary,” that is, if it were to be “deemed” anything at all. But for me it changed everything. It was one in an endless, twisted string of peculiar days I spent with Dad.For the story’s sake, allow me to help you picture my father, Richard. He was an exact intersection between Elvis and Tony Soprano—heavy on the “Elvis” in looks and ALL Tony Soprano in demeanor. Now by that I don’t mean he was a mobster. The guy owned a small town grocery store and was generous to a near fault. But, as Italian fathers go, he was the prototypical likeness of any father you’ve ever seen in a prototypical Italian movie. Being a man of few words and one with natural, aggressive built-in body language, I can honestly say we didn’t exchange more than half a dozen “noteworthy” conversations for the first thirty-three years of my life. I loved him, I guess. And I guess he loved me. But he didn’t know me. And I certainly wouldn’t have copped to have known him, not back then. The “phone call” came on Thanksgiving of 2002. “Your father has an inoperable tumor in his lung.” My mother hiccupped into the phone between mad fits of unmanageable tears. Dad was crying, no, bawling in the background. And he was pacing. I felt him pacing through the phone. I could tell by the way his voice—the rage and pain—grew weaker and stronger in perfect rhythm as it crept upon my mother, then fled back away…and so on. Half kidding, not meaning it, and just to say anything, I asked, “Do you want me to come home?” You see, I was in L.A. doing my thing. My thing? Acting—acting in some television, acting really single, and for the most part acting pretty worry-free. My father must have heard me FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE cause he choked out, “Come home, please, Lisa. Come home now.” Forty-eight hours later, there I was in Iron Mountain, Michigan. I know what you’re thinking, “Where in the H-E-Double-Toothpicks is Iron Mountain, Michigan?” Trust me, I grew up here, and I was thinking the same dang thing. I stepped off the plane. There in the distance stood the figure of the man I once knew as “Dad.” I only recognized him because he was still real heavy on the Elvis looks-wise (and truthfully, I always dug that about him). But his bolder half, Tony Soprano, was no where to be found. T.S. had been replaced by this terrified, child-like dude, with innocent eyes that were free of anger and just plain grateful to see me for the first time in their wary brown lives. This “new guy,” to everyone’s shock, inhabited my father’s body for the next eight months, until his death, July 20, 2003. And clinging to his arm for balance (or maybe to keep him from toppling over, I’ll never really know) stood my very recognizable, always amiable and commonly teary-eyed mother. And to answer your next question—yes, Dad smoked for close to forty of his fifty-nine years on the planet. He quit two months prior to the discovery of the tumor (thirty-nine years and ten months too late, to be exact). Despite the diagnosis, they did operate. After that, the cancer traveled to his spine, hip, adrenal glands, liver, and kidneys. After that we stopped counting…and asking. And somewhere between all that, I was doing one of my new things and massaging his feet one sunny, lazy afternoon. I can now firmly attest, “it’s not just me:” A foot massage is one of the most relaxing, emotionally-freeing forms of love a person can give. It had become habit at this point. My dad suffered great pain since the day cancer had caged and confused him, not just physically, but also spiritually. So, by this point, I had figured out that a simple (yet sometimes lengthy) foot massage worked like a teensy dose of Morphine sending him on a temporary emotional vacation. So there I was, getting up close & personal with my dad’s feet for the umpteenth time and thinking about whatever—maybe how I had officially gone punk. My auburn hair was now faded and fuchsia-esque with two inches or so of very dark brown roots. Or maybe I was thinking about how I now drank my coffee black. You see, there was no longer the time or the luxury in a-day-in-the-life-of-Daddy’s-caretaker for some good old fashioned cream and sugar. And maybe I was thinking about how foolish my old life used to be when the above said B.S. actually mattered. But I know I was thinking he was successfully sedated when I heard him whisper something. Then he sniffled. I looked up. Tears were streaking his face, each one mapping an original route to his chin. And he was staring at me like an angel, or how I now imagine an angel would look at me, if I ever got that lucky (again). “Dad, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I asked nonchalantly, because seeing Dad cry nowadays was commonplace, like brushing my teeth, or answering the phone when it rings...or seeing my mother cry. “You’re so nice.” He stated plainly. I didn’t get it. But there was a whole heap of stuff I “didn’t get” anymore. So, I smiled back pleasantly; a nice, low-key “thank you” to his nice, low-key compliment. But his sweet eyes held steady on mine long enough for me to realize that it wasn’t saline they were flooded with, it was regret. Then he added, “I never knew that about you.” And then I got it. I maintained a cool “front” for his sake, held back thirty-three years of my own pain, and placated him. “Well, the important thing is; you know now.” And then I plastered that congenial smile back onto my face, and worked my butt off to keep it there. “Dad, it’s okay. You can stop crying. You know now.” And to further minimize the enormity of the event, I quipped, “And, thank you, by the way.” I hope that gave him some sense of peace. With every ounce of my faith and a handful of the neighbors (you know, the sweet ones with their never-ending casserole dishes), I prayed that this man who was dying a slow, brutal death that few if any deserve, had his load lightened. I prayed, literally, to my new buddy, God, that one of my father’s “should haves” (should have gotten to know my daughter) was put forever to rest that afternoon. Because on that ordinary day, somewhere near the eye of his hurricane, my dad managed to change me forever. He empowered me, gave me wings to fly, rearranged my DNA, validated my existence…and I’m not exaggerating. Now some of you probably just can’t relate. I know my daughter will fall into that category. She’s already claimed full possession of the title “Daddy’s Girl.” And some of you are bred to be confident while others are born that way. You simply don’t need—well let’s call it—outside validation. That’s an important point. But some of you are me. In any case, picture it: A little girl in a grown woman’s body waiting for the first man she ever loved to say the words “I love you, too." And then waiting for that same man to add that he loves you just the way you are. You’re good. You’re great. In fact; you’re perfect. When I left him to his daily nappy-poo (as he’d so adorably and unusually dubbed them), the couch became a gigantic hug from the Universe. I melted deep into its squishy, familiar cushions and let the words bathe over me: You’re so nice. My dad liked me. He believed in me. He finally saw me. I know this must be the most important day of my life because I think of it more than any other. And, yeah, yeah, realistically, I’m supposed to be reminiscing over the birth of my beautiful daughter. But regarding that event, all I really ever come up with is…ouch! So, instead, whenever I need a boost (which is a frequent consequence to existing), I remind myself of the day I inadvertently leapt into womanhood, the day I officially became “me.” “You’re so nice,” he said. And he set me free. Lisa Cerasoli |
The Soundtrack - by Newton's Theorem
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Dedication to Dad