Conversations on the Telephone

One of the hardest things I've had to learn to do since Mom died is how to talk to my dad. We had come to a place in our relationship where we didn't say much to one another. Nothing had happened, but Mom and I had so much to say, and Dad just didn't like to talk on the phone. However, I talked to Mom three or four times a day. Sometimes when I'd call, he'd answer.

"Hi Dad. What's up?"
"Not much. Do you want to talk to your mother?"
"Yeah, is she home?"
"Yes. Hold on. Wanda! Phone! Here she is."
"Bye, Dad. Love you."
"Love you too."

And that was about it. I loved Dad. He loved me. Not much else to say.

I tried a few times to ask about his childhood or early memories of me, but Dad's not a real reflective, sentimental type, and I don't think his childhood held very many happy memories. Those conversations would last a little longer than the ones over the phone, but not by much.

We would talk politics whenever something interesting would happen, but since we are both of the same liberal bent, it would end up with us agreeing with each other about whatever the issue was, and then the dialogue would dry up.

Dad just isn't a conversationalist.

I could call Mom to tell her something funny I saw or a cute thing one of my kids said. I'd call to ask how to boil eggs or what gets grass stain out of pink pants or how to make self-rising flour out of regular. She'd call me with the latest updates on her sisters and brothers or my cousins. She'd have stories about my nephews or the neighbors or friends from church. Mom was a wealth of information about everything, and once she got a cordless phone, she usually didn't mind chatting anytime of day except between 4 and 5 when her soap was on. If I had a quick question, I could catch her during the long 4:30 commercials but other than that, that hour was a dead zone, and God forbid you interrupt it.

Once Mom was gone, I still had the need to talk. I missed our several times a day chats more than I thought humanly possible. I can still hear her on the other end of the line when, if I hadn't called her by 10 a.m., she'd call me to make sure we were all okay. I can hear the edge in her voice when I'd maybe called one too many times that day. And if I ever, EVER went a day without calling, I caught heck. I just can't begin to describe how much I miss talking to my mom.

So once she died, I tried calling Dad. Both of my sisters did too. We'd call him each once a day to say hello and check on him. The conversations were much like always.

"Hi Dad. What's going on?"
"Not much. How are things your way?"
"Fine."
"That's good."
"Well, I'm just calling to check on you. You doing okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Okay, well, I'll let you go. Love you."
"Love you too."

He even "complained" to his sister that we were "always calling" to check up on him. She gently scolded him, saying, "John, at least you have three daughters who care enough to call you."

Mom had her killing surgery four years ago. She lived for five months after, and during that time, I only got to talk to her twice on the phone. She was too sick to talk, but she was still here. I think it was a good transition for me. I didn't lose her all at once.

But I miss talking to her on the phone. I need that connection to my parents. To that older generation who knows more than I do. To someone who loves me best.

I try to call Dad every day. Most days I do, but if I don't, he doesn't seem to mind. I still have a hard time just picking up the phone to chat. It's getting better, but it's just not the same.