Papa, Can You Hear Me?

Six
Papa, Can You Hear Me?

          “Auntie Melita called,” I said to Papa who sat at the table paying bills.  This was another aunt from another city whom I had yet to meet.  She and her husband came to the U.S. five years ago.  She had a beauty shop in the Philippines, while he held a very important position with Abbott Laboratories.  I had no idea at this point what they did in the States.  “She wants you to call her about them coming to visit.”  Pa looked more serious than usual in handling his mail.  Till I came to America, I had never seen so much mail come every day, mostly bills: utilities, water, phones, cable, internet, insurance, apartment, medical, and credit cards with long lists of charges that included my airline tickets. 

          Papa did not answer me.  He didn’t even turn his head toward the kitchen sink where I was washing the dishes.  “She wants you to call her,” I continued.  Still, he didn’t answer. Can you hear me, Papa?” I muttered quietly, not really intending to be heard. “Would you like me to call her for you?”  He kept to his work as if he could not hear me. 

          It used to frustrate me so much when Papa seemed to ignore me when I talked to him.  I stopped taking it too personally when I realized that he sometimes treated Mama the same way.  I started noticing it as I became less self-absorbed and became more observant of his mood changes.

         I tried very hard to understand Papa’s behavior.  Sometimes he’d be very talkative and loud, and other times he’d be so quiet as if he couldn’t hear, going about whatever he was doing, like now.  At least he stopped insulting me at the slightest provocation.  I stopped feeling as though I was always walking on land mines.

          Rising slowly from his chair with a frown and massaging his temples, Papa turned to me and I was immediately scared.  What did I do now? I asked myself.  He opened his mouth as if to say something to me, but he proceeded to walk toward the living room.  He checked on the baby in the crib then he lay down on the sofa, still massaging his temples. 

          Concerned and confused, I followed him. “Are you okay, Papa?  Can I get you something?”  He slowly shook his head from left to right with furrowed brows and said nothing then he closed his eyes.  He looked like someone suffering from a headache.

          I knew Mama was not supposed to be called at work unless it was an emergency.  I was worried about Papa so I called her.  She didn’t answer her cell phone.  I knew it would be on vibrate, but that she’d check the missed call and call me back.  She did.  “What’s the matter, April,” she whispered, sounding very concerned.  “Is something wrong?” 

          “It’s Pa.  He looks sick.”  I explained everything to her as quickly as I could, knowing she had limited time to talk to me.

          “Don’t worry.  It’s another one of those migraine headaches. He’ll take his medicine, and if he wants me to take him to Kaiser’s Urgent Care, let him know that I won’t be working any overtime tonight and I’ll be home in an hour.”

          Mama was right.  Pa took his med and he got better.  I was relieved, but something kept nagging at me.  Why these headaches?  Could they be signs of something more serious?  Was there something they were not telling me?

          One day Papa came home early from work.  “I need to see a doctor,” he explained.  “Your mother can’t get away from work, so would you like to go with me?”

         A mixture of worry and elation gripped me.  I was happy that he wanted me to be with him.  But I wondered why because I couldn’t drive yet.  What help could I possibly give him?

         As if he read my mind, he explained, “I want you to help me talk to the doctor.  Listen to what he says, and speak for me.  I have an ear infection.  I get these every now and then.  When it happens I get a migraine headache and it makes it hard for me to communicate.  Can you do that for me?”

          I hadn’t noticed it much before, but his speech sounded slurred.  It might have been caused by the infection.  “Of course, I can, Pa.  I’d be happy to.”

          Sylvia, the Mexican lady next door, came to baby-sit for Paul.  The extra income she earned from babysitting in the Project was a huge supplement to her income as a cashier at a local Mexican produce store. We were lucky to have her as a neighbor.  Sometimes she made Mexican tamales for us in exchange for our Philippine egg rolls or lumpia. 

~*~

         The husky, middle-aged doctor stroked his short beard with all five fingers as he studied my father’s chart on the computer.  I was amazed.  No hard copy chart on a clipboard anymore?  Everything had to be super high-tech in America. A click here and there on the keyboard, and bam, he got Pa’s medical history.  This included his last several visits to Urgent Care.  And that was not good news, I could tell from the doctor’s reaction.  He hoisted his shoulders away from the back of the chair and rolled forward closer to Papa.  He poked around Pa’s ears then heaved a deep sigh.

          “Nestor, another infection, and this one is more severe than the last three.”  He talked loud and slowly.  He didn’t have to because Pa could read his lips and understood what he was saying.  I wanted to say to the doctor: Just don’t turn your back to him and you won’t have any problem being understood.  “You’ve been a faithful visitor to the Urgent Care, and each time we advised you to see your personal physician for a thorough evaluation, maybe even for a Cochlear implant.  I don’t see anything in your record that you’ve done that.”

         Pa slurred his response.  The doctor had difficulty understanding him.  I intervened when Pa looked at me for assistance.  “He said they’re laying off a lot of people at work and he could risk his job if he took a sick day often.”

          “You’re going to have to find a way to take care of this problem,” the doctor said.  “We won’t be able to reverse your condition, but at least we could make you feel comfortable with little or no infection.  We might also be able to slow the progress of hearing loss even for just a little bit.”

          Slow the progress of hearing loss?  What is he saying?  That Pa could be totally deaf eventually?  I felt sick to my stomach. 

          The constant headaches were caused by ear infections partly because of the hearing aids I didn’t know he wore.  His hair was a little longish, which covered his ears so I never saw the devices.  He was probably embarrassed that I’d find out he was hearing impaired.

          “I will make an appointment soon,” Pa said.  I detected a sound of embarrassment in his voice as the doctor lectured him for being negligent about his own health.  I never saw my father look so vulnerable as the physician hinted at his inadequacies.  I felt some resentment toward the doctor. I knew he was right; Pa should have followed the doctors’ advice, but it still hurt me to see my own father humiliated that way.

         “We’re going to clean your eardrums again and remove the liquid,” the doctor continued, and proceeded to verbally list everything else that needed to be done, including the same medicines previously prescribed.  Sometimes he’d turn his back to Pa then I had to interpret what was just said.

         Watching Papa struggle to communicate with the doctor was upsetting me.  I wanted to put my arms around him and tell him he’d be all right, but I didn’t.  It would only crush his pride, I thought.
 
         ”I think your hearing aids are not serving you well anymore,” the doctor said.  It sounded scary to me.  What was he saying?  For Pa to stop wearing them?  That would be absurd!  How was he going to hear? How was he going to work?  How was he going to be able to do normal things like driving if he could not hear?

          It seemed that Pa had heard the same thing before.  He didn’t look surprised…just sad. 

           “I understand that your insurance does not cover hearing aids.  If you can’t afford it, maybe the Department of Rehabilitation can help you get a new pair.  It wouldn’t hurt to contact them.  Check out some of Kaiser’s membership financial assistance programs; if you’re under the poverty level, you might qualify for some assistance.  There’s got to be something out there to help you with this.”

          The doctor wasn’t really so bad.  He was trying to get my father better.  I was impressed that there were programs to help people like Pa; that he might be able to get a new set of hearing aids for free.  I’d never heard of such a thing in the Philippines.  Maybe this is one of those things that made the roads in America seem to be paved in gold.

          “I’m going to give you a printout of instructions on how to cleanse your eardrums on a regular basis,” the doctor said, “and a report on this visit with my recommendations.  Your doctor will see this report right away because I’m sending him an urgent email about you.  Please call him and set up an appointment, okay?”

          Papa nodded.  I wanted to cry, but I managed to flash him a smile.  I turned to the doctor.  “I will make sure he does, doctor,” I said.  Immediately, I thought I should not have done that.  I spoke for my father without his permission.  I threw him a quick worried glance.  He didn’t look angry.

          The doctor smiled at me and tapped me on the shoulder.  “There you go.  Take care of your father, okay?”

          “I will, doctor.  I promise.”

          “You got a good daughter here, Nestor,” the doctor said, rising from his chair. 

          Pa looked at me, and I thought I saw a hint of pride in his eyes. “Yes, I do, doctor.”

          I noticed that the label inside Pa’s shirt collar was sticking up into his neck.  I reached out and fixed it.  He smiled and touched the back of his neck.  “Thanks,” he said.  “No wonder it felt itchy back there.”

         We took the prescription for Pa’s infection and proceeded to the Pharmacy.  I advised him to get seated and rest while I stood in line for him so he gave me his Kaiser card and prescription.

          From where I stood I could see Pa’s reflection through the framed art print with a dark background.  His head was tipped back against the wall with his eyes closed.  The vertical lines between his crumpled brows were deep, telling me that his headache was intense.  I thought about the first day I arrived and how he seemed so mean to me.  Ma told me then that he’d been having a lot of migraine headaches, but did not tell me why.  They didn’t tell me about the hearing aids, or the infections, or the irreversible hearing loss.  They didn’t tell me anything.  Were they ashamed of it?  Ma knew that Pa was hurting my feelings when he seemed to be ignoring me.  I wished I had known why all along.

         Oh, Papa.  You weren’t ignoring me.  You simply could not read my lips.

         When we got home, Mama was already there and feeding the baby.  I went straight into my room and released what I had been suppressing since we left Kaiser.  I crawled into a ball in my bed, buried my face in the pillows, and let my tears come.

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WORD COUNT: 2,055

This is almost finished.  Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review my story.  I can’t emphasize enough how important your words of encouragement are to me.  The next chapter is now in the oven.  It will be done soon.

Many hugs

Mulani