August 16, 1998, 8 PM

Reconciliation

August 16, 1998, 8 PM

Today my dad, who is 78, fell while roller skating at my son's fourth birthday party. As usual he bounced right back up and helped with the rest of the party. He has always been very active, and has remained in such great shape that neither he nor I ever questioned his ability to handle a spin around the roller rink.

Two hours later I was rushing him to the emergency room of the local hospital. He had broken out into a cold sweat, complained of a "strange" headache, lost control of his legs, and begun drifting in and out of coherence.

The emergency staff immediately sent him to get a brain scan that confirmed he had a subdural hematoma. The fall had jarred him enough that it had broken a couple of large blood vessels that feed into his brain. The intense bleeding had put pressure on the brain, displacing it and ultimately preventing it from getting oxygen. He was rushed into emergency brain surgery, and I sat waiting for the outcome with my mom.

I couldn't get my last coherent image of him out of my mind. In his confused state, as he was strapped onto the scan machine. He had looked up at me, smiled in a slightly confused and very vulnerable manner, and called my name…"Steve…" His voice had trailed off into unconsciousness.

Several hours later, the post-operative surgeon report was grim. He may not survive, the damage was very serious, he inhaled some vomit during the surgery that may result in pneumonia, full recovery is almost impossible at his age, nursing care is almost a certainty…

Surfing was not a high priority at that moment, and yet I couldn't help but think of the recent death of a surfer that I had witnessed just a few weeks before. I thought it was my wakeup call. Maybe it wasn't my own death I was being prepared for.

When we were finally permitted to see dad in the Intensive Care Unit, it was shocking. His shaven head was wrapped in bloodied bandages, a shunt draining fluids from his cranium. His breathing was supported by a machine hooked up to his mouth, and several tubes and monitoring wires were connected to various parts of him. He was in a deep coma, he was ashen gray, and he looked twenty years older than he had looked a couple of hours before. Dad had never spent a night in a hospital in his whole life.

August 23, 1998

The past week has been a blur of days spent at the hospital, supporting mom, taking calls from well-wishers, chasing down the doctors who were trying to avoid us, interviewing with social workers. Work and surfing be damned. I have done a lot of research into the nature of dad's injury, recovery from traumatic brain injuries, and I have begun working on a strategy for waking him up. The ICU nursing staff are trying to prepare mom for the possibility that we may have to "pull the plug."

August 24, 1998

Dad is off of the respirator and in his unconscious state he is trying to rip out the intravenous feeding tubes and his catheter. The breathing machine has been removed. I think he is squeezing my hand on purpose sometimes. Yeah Dad!

August 25, 1998

I have taken to talking to dad. I hope it helps wake him up. At least it lets him know someone is there in case he hears. He is hard of hearing and we had to remove his hearing aids, so I have to talk real loud. I run out of trivial things to talk about very quickly.

August 26, 1998

Dad is definitely squeezing my hand in response to pressure and sound. He's not answering questions though.

Dad, remember how you used to hate how often I was surfing? I know you never really approved of my passion and dedication to something that did not contribute to the family or our future, but it is still my passion. We never get to talk about it because you always get so frustrated. Now you don't have a choice.

I will never forget the autumn day when there had been a solid swell running for a week, the weather had been perfect, and I had rarely spent more that a few moments at home to grab a bite to eat, or sleep. I had neglected my chores, and I had ducked out on the work you were counting on me to complete. Your stern voice raised in frustration, you had angrily demanded that I follow through on my responsibilities. I had responded that the surf was perfect and I had to go right then. I'd take care of that stuff later. You had lost complete control and shouted, "STEVE, YOU'RE ALWAYS CHASING THOSE WAVING WAVES!"

I felt bad, but I had to go. Your last unfortunate phrase had sounded so odd I had laughed out loud to your face. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, but as a father now I realize it must have hurt as I threw my board into the car and raced down the drive.

I had driven down to Rio that day and even though no sandbars remained, the water and air were still so warm we could trunk it. The water was afternoon emerald glass, and the sets were booming a couple of feet overhead. It was breaking close to shore so paddling out during lulls was easy, and when the waves stood up to break, they hung like crystal curtains, inviting us to try them.

At first we just teased around, faking takeoffs, building the psych. Then some of us began to take off. Go at an angle, get some speed and fly over the back before it broke. We were flying. Sano dropped straight down and his board got snapped in two for his insolence. Then it happened. Bosco took off going right on an overhead wave, as the wave jumped up another foot he stepped to the nose of his board and hung ten toes over as he dropped down the wave face. The wave jacked up another foot and there were a couple of feet of water above and below him as he streaked across this impossible wall of water. As the wave began to pitch it was too late for Bosco to kick out so he casually backpedaled a couple of steps and crouched into a cheater five as the sheet of water threw over him. I was on the inside and saw this. I saw Bosco still streaking inside this crystal curtain further and further down the line until the wave exploded near the shore. Bosco emerged unscathed and laughing as he retrieved his board. We had always just thought of ourselves as kids on the beach, but this image burned into my mind, and replayed over the years, has charged me. Bosco's ride hadn't been a cool Rio ride. It had world class style. The ante had been raised. We all had to dig deeper, more talent, more discipline, more risks. Don't settle for less. Don’t settle for five when a ten is possible.

The waves had been good, all my friends were on it, and I had let go of the strain between us. I'm not so sure you were ever able to though.

Dad…Dad…Can You Hear Me?…Dad…Wake Up…Dad don't quit now…Dad…

August 27, 1998

Dad is opening one eye a little but not showing any more signs of consciousness than the previous day. They have had his arms tied to the bedrails for days now because he is so strong and keeps ripping his IV's and catheter out when his hands are free. Hold my hand dad, relax, I'm here…

You were there for me a lot of times. Especially when I needed you. Some of my most favorite memories of us were of our hunting expeditions into the Alaska wilderness when I was a boy. Just the two of us exploring that untouched inspirational country, and the freedom to hike forever, meet challenges, and confide without any other distractions. We rarely shot anything. We were mostly just being together. I learned a lot from those trips. You taught me to love and respect nature and the environment. That too is one of the best parts about surfing.

When we moved to California, that wilderness was lost to me. You discovered the Sierras, and I discovered the Pacific. Even in summer you never went further into the water than your knees. The dolphins, seals, otters, and seabirds became my wild companions. I discovered the alien low tide world of crabs, urchins, and octopi. They have become as familiar to me as the land of the moose, bear, and beaver we once shared.

Remember how you used to rub the cramps out of my legs after we climbed a mountain peak to watch mountain goats play with their kids among the clouds? Here, let me rub your arms, they are as tight as stone. You are safe…I'm here…you are not alone…

August 28, 1998

When mom and I arrived this morning they were moving dad to another hospital. No one had bothered to tell us. A specialist in brain injury recovery had selected dad as a candidate for his intensive rehabilitation program. I'm not sure what he saw, but I'm glad he is giving dad a chance, and mom and I some hope. Mom rode with dad in the lift to his new hospital room while I drove dad's beloved pickup.

All of my life you took off a couple of weeks in the autumn to "hunt" in that old truck. We always knew you weren't trying to shoot game. You always went to the mountains to be on your own and rejuvenate your soul, without the rest of us to interrupt your introspection. You taught me about getting some space and going out on ones own to explore new worlds from time to time. I think part of it is to rediscover your "self" apart from the family, the job, and the obligations. My surf trips do that for me! You always had difficulty understanding why I would drop work and launch into the unknown of Southern California, Mexico, Oregon, or Hawaii with nothing more than some gas money and a surfboard. It takes a change to help keep your "self" focused and clear. I know that.

Dad…Dad…Are You There?…Dad…

August 30, 1998

Dad is showing more signs of waking up. He can smile, especially at the young nurses. He can't remember my name but knows I am a familiar person. Every morning I am excited by his progress, and every evening I am laid low by how far he still has to recover.

You are so confused now dad. Like the child that I once was, and you now look to me for reassurance. I must draw strength and faith from myself and bathe you in it. There are more sets on the horizon…There is a perfect break around the next point…it calls to us…look ahead…believe the promise of life and never ending discovery. Coming part way back won't do. You must be fully aware to stroke into the best that life offers. Come on Dad…Check This Out Dad…Listen to this music…Let me read you a story…Look at these pictures…

September 1, 1998

Dad is better every day. He doesn't question the accident, he doesn't question his future, he is on it. I think it is his nature to keep going. Quitting , giving up, aren't part of his person. The hospital is full of people, all ages, who have given up. The injury is too much, the recovery too hard, the challenges too great. The source of their inspiration, their motivation, is gone or proven false.

I remember when I was young admiring your workshop, watching you repair things, listening to you describe your inventive ways to solve problems. I loved the times you let me help you in your workshop even when you got mad at me for being careless, or misplacing tools. Your never seemed to doubt your ability to tackle new challenges, and more often than not, you preferred your own solutions to relying on someone else's.

Remember how I took over the garage for my surfboards? How could you forget? I would spend hours repairing dings and resetting fins. As I got more experienced I began shaping blanks, and glassing boards. The resin outlines of those boards are still bonded to the garage floor. I spent hours late at night, grinding and sanding. I would arrive for meals covered in masking tape, foam and resin dust, my clothes saturated with resin drippings. The pungent smell of curing resin pervaded the house. You used to get mad that I was still misplacing your tools and keeping you up at night with the noise and fumes, but you didn't stop me. You seemed to know that this was my path to discovering craftsmanship. There is something special about envisioning how you want something to be, and using your own resources and abilities to try and make it happen. It was more than the technical skills and artistry. It was the whole process. It was the willingness to take risks, invest effort and time, learn from mistakes, and finally fulfill your own vision.

That's the best gift you shared with me. We know how to face adversity and persist. We find a way. We're innovators. We're adapters. We're survivors.

Dad…Dad…Dad do you know who I am? That’s right! I'm Steve! That's right!

October 1998

It's been over two months since dad's fall. He is home recovering. He takes walks every day. He remembers everyone and almost everything. He can read and write on his own. He is frail, and regaining his strength will take time. He gets tired and confused sometimes, but he is determined to reclaim his life. The rehab doctor said that considering the comatose state that dad was in when he arrived at the center, dad has had the fastest and most complete recovery he's ever seen. When mom suggested "You mean…for someone his age?" the doctor's reply was clear, "No, for anyone."

Dad is stoked to be alive. His attitude is mellow, and he is genuinely glad to see me.

I can't stay long to visit today dad, a new west swell just arrived and I want to get on it early. What's that? Have fun, and catch a couple for you?

I always do…

Return to da hulk's homepage.

Last updated on 10/12/01.

Maintained by da hulk.