My father is a triathlete. That is, he has competed in several triathlons¯a kind of marathon that includes running as well as swimming and bike riding. He's been doing it for years, and he really enjoys all the sports, but his favorite is bike riding. Ever since I was little, I've always loved going biking with my dad. We would leave the city behind and follow the bike trails way up into the woods of Wisconsin. We had a favorite spot where we would picnic. It was always our special time, and it kept me in great physical shape.
But as I grew older and became a teenager, I was distracted by other things to do with my time. Suddenly, it was very important to go shopping with friends or to a movie with a boy. I saw my dad every evening at home. Why did I have to
devote my free Saturdays to all-day bike trips with him, too?
If my indifference hurt him, he never let on. He never asked me outright, but would always let me know when he was planning a bike trip in case I wanted to come.
I didn't, and as I approached my sixteenth birthday, I wanted to spend less and less time with my dad. Except for one thing I didn't mind being with him when he was giving me a driving lesson.
More than anything else, I wanted that driver's license. It meant freedom. It meant no more waiting for parents to pick me up. No more carpools. It meant looking cool behind the wheel of a car as I drove past my friends' houses. Of course, since I didn't have my own car, I would still be dependent on my parents, since they were allowing me to use theirs.
It was a Sunday morning, and I was in a terrible mood. Two of my friends had gone to the movies the night before and hadn't invited me. I was in my room thinking of ways to make them sorry when my father poked his head in. "Want to go for a ride, today, Beck? It's a beautiful day."
But I preferred to sit in my room and stew. I wasn't very polite when I said, "No! Please stop asking me!" It didn't matter that he hadn't asked me in months. Or that he was trying to cheer me up. It didn't even matter that he just wanted
to be with me, as I knew he did.
"Leave me alone!" That was what I said. Leave me alone. Those were the last words I said to him before he left the house that morning.
My friends called and invited me to go to the mall with them a few hours later. I forgot to be mad at them and went. I came home to find the note propped up against the mirror on the mail table. My mother put it where I would be sure to see it.
"Dad has had an accident. Please meet us at Highland Park Hospital. Don't hurry, just drive carefully. The keys are in the drawer."
I grabbed the keys and tried hard not to speed or cry as I drove.
When I reached the hospital, I went in through the emergency room. I remembered the way because I had been there once before when I broke my arm. I thought about that incident now. I had fallen out of the apple tree in our backyard. I started to scream, but before the scream was out of my mouth, there was my dad, scooping me up, holding me and my injured arm. He held me while my mother drove us to the emergency room. And he held me as they set my arm and put a pink cast on it. I do remember the pain, but I also remember how safe I felt in my dad's strong arms. And I remember the chocolate ice cream afterward.
I saw my sister Debbie first. She told me our mom was in with our dad and that he was going up to surgery soon. She said I had to wait to see him until after the surgery. Just then, my mother came out.
She looked very old. I burst into tears without saying a word, and she put her arms around me.
My father's injuries were extensive. He had been riding on the sidewalk and, as he approached a stoplight, it had turned green. He had the right of way, but the white delivery truck making the right-hand turn didn't think so. At least, the
sixteen-year-old driver didn't think so. Later, he admitted that he never saw my dad because he didn't look in his outside mirror.
The only reason my dad wasn't killed is that he ran into the van; the van did not run into him. He smashed head and face first into the side of the truck. His fiberglass helmet absorbed the blow, but he broke both shoulders and his left
clavicle. The doctors put him in a horrible metal brace that attached to his body with screws. It braced his head and neck and looked horribly painful. My mom forewarned me about this apparatus before she let me see my dad because she was afraid that the sight of him would freak me out. She was right.
Still, as my mom said, it could have been much worse. My dad never lost consciousness. This proved to be a very good thing because the shaken boy who drove the truck wanted to move my dad, to help him up. Even I know you don't move someone who has been injured like that.
"Your father was able to tell the kid to leave him alone and just call 911, thank God! If he had moved Daddy, there's no telling what might have happened. A broken rib might have pierced a lung...."
My mother may have said more, but I didn't hear. I didn't hear anything except those terrible words: Leave me alone.
My dad said them to save himself from being hurt more. How much had I hurt him when I hurled those words at him earlier in the day?
I had to wait until the next afternoon to see him. When I did, he was in terrible pain. I tried to tell him how sorry I was, but I couldn't tell if he heard me.
It was several days later that he was finally able to have a conversation. I held his hand gently, afraid of hurting him.
"Daddy... I am so sorry...."
"It's okay, sweetheart. I'll be okay."
"No," I said, "I mean about what I said to you that day. You know, that morning?"
My father could no more tell a lie than he could fly. He looked at me blankly and said, "Sweetheart, I don't remember anything about that day, not before, during or after the accident. I remember kissing you goodnight the night before,
though." He managed a weak smile.
I never wanted him to leave me alone. And to think it might have happened. If he had been killed, we all would have been left alone. It was too horrible to imagine. I felt incredible remorse for my thoughtless remark.
My English teacher, a very wise woman, once told me that words have immeasurable power. They can hurt or they can heal. And we all have the power to choose our words. I intend to do that very carefully from now on.
BY: Becky Steinberg
Only Words From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teens Talk Relationships
