Bittersweet heartache
My Dad loves comic books.
Like REALLY LOVES comic books.
Maybe it’s a generational thing, but I never understood his fascination. He would sit there for hours, going through the same exact copies over and over. And if you asked him about it? You opened Pandora’s Box of chatter.
When he got cancer, the comic books literally became his shield. He was happiest then, when he could forget his body was failing him.
The psychiatrist thought he was too dependent. It was childish, and maybe he was missing out on life. Whatever life he had left.
I disagreed. So what? Clearly, the books were his coping mechanism, the bold colors and jagged speech bubbles tearing at the darkness. I couldn’t understand it, but as his only daughter, I could see how the books provided comfort. Don’t we all deserve that?
He’d always wanted me to read Wonder Woman.
“She has your name!” He would say, over and over. Diana. I knew that from the movies, but still, that was his reasoning. He’d repeat it, every time I visited.
The books became his solace. Meanwhile, I had to keep facing the world, day after day, waiting, willing for something, anything to change, despite the nagging feeling of dread in the back of my mind.
My Dad is dying.
I hated it when the thought popped into my head, but I couldn’t help it. It felt inevitable. So many thoughts, so many treatments, so many tests. It was so much I couldn’t fully understand it all. Watching him struggle to keep his eyes open, just to say hello, was my own personal version of hell.
All you want to do is help. But you can’t.
I want to say he took it like a champ. But that’s the thing, everyone’s afraid to die. He’d grow frustrated, angry whenever he couldn’t remember something. Angry I couldn’t be there as much when I went to college, though he’d never admit that aloud.
I brought him comic books every chance I could. He never asked me to, but the sparkle in his eyes every time I walked in, bright cover in hand, was enough to keep the habit going.
It was years of this. Years of stifled living, held back by his own body. Frustration. Hurt. Discomfort.
When finals rolled around, I barely visited. The guilt of absence loomed over, threatening to overwhelm me.
It was like he knew.
I told him when I saw him last, that it’d be a while. I just couldn’t anticipate quite how long.
As I rummaged about my bag, a bright cover caught my attention.
Wonder Woman.
I owed him one. I flipped through the pages haphazardly, sticking a bit longer on the scenes that jumped out at me.
Blue, scribbled handwriting down the left margin.
“Whenever I upset you”
It was a scene where a general was apologizing for underestimating her.
“Whenever you need advice”
Etta Candy, her best friend, giving a pep talk.
I kept flipping. “Whenever…” appeared a few more times.
But the last one made my heart drop.
No writing, just four words circled so many times there was a heavy dent in the page.
Queen Hippolyta, her mother, saying “I love you, Diana.”
