“Holding the Silence Together”  

In Silver Linings Playbook, one of my favorite films, Pat reads A Farewell to Arms. He finishes it, swears, and promptly chucks it straight through his bedroom window. It’s  four o’clock in the morning, but after the crescendo of broken glass, he storms downstairs and wakes up his parents to break down the plot for them. “They’re going to be happy! But do you think he stops there? No! I mean the world is hard enough as it is, guys. Can’t somebody say, ‘Hey,  let’s be positive!  Let’s have a good ending to the story!’” I resonate with Pat’s frustration.  It’s a reminder that even after the struggle, when everything is set up for victory, Hemingway can write a different ending.  

COVID-19 has cost me a few things so far: a regular sleep schedule, in-person classes, my job. However, as an introvert and a homebody, being quarantined hasn’t impacted my life very much. The most difficult part about it is not being able to see my dad. The two of us are a lot alike—we love the outdoors, being on the motorcycle, David Gray—but we aren’t people who like doctors, even when we’re hurting.   

In the fall of 2016, I was set to hike Glacier National Park. A month beforehand, I fell down a set of concrete stairs at my dad’s. After finishing a cigar with my dad, I went to the ER, and they told me I fractured my wrist; the pain was so great that I didn’t even realize that I’d fractured my ankle as well until a few days later. I brushed off the ankle pain, as did the second doctor I saw at Urgent Care. They told me to wear a boot for a few weeks and I’d be fine. Well, I wore a boot, but it was a hiking boot. Four years later, and my right ankle still twinges when it rains.   

My dad has been hit by a bus. He’s had his jaw wired shut, and a few winters ago he started having nerve pain in his shoulder after he tried to eradicate January ice from the driveway. When I ride with him, I can always tell when the pain starts to bother him—he’ll roll his shoulder as we fly down the freeway on his Harley. You might say the lesson here is that we should take better care of ourselves, and I agree, but there’s also a deeper lesson. No matter what hardships life throws at us—even my mom dying—we’re capable of achieving levels of happiness and satisfaction that eclipse the pain and grief. We just have to hang on.  

As we social distance, Dad and I exchange texts at odd hours, as well as the occasional phone call. We tell each other about the house projects we’re working on (he’s redoing his downstairs bathroom; I’m putting up sheetrock in my attic) or talk about the last so-bad-it’s-good movie we watched on Netflix. If I hear his voice echo slightly on the other end of the line, I know he’s smoking a cigar in the garage, staring at his motorcycle. I miss him; under our umbrella of grief, it’s hard to distinguish absence from death.   

My dad has taught me how to be a stronger person. He’s taught me that if  you’re staring death in the face, you might as well smile. We hold the memory of my mom close, and sometimes we talk about her. Sometimes we don’t talk about anything; it’s enough to hold the silence together, even on the other end of the line.