My Contract With My Dad

My dad was in a coma when my mom was eight months pregnant with me. He broke his leg skiing and a blood clot traveled up through his body and nearly stopped his heart. It did not. But my mother sat in her New York City apartment with me in her belly, protected by friends and family from the knowledge of how dangerously close to death he was.  I like to believe that during that brief time, when we both were in between worlds, I, in-utero and he, in a twilight consciousness, that we made a pact. We made a deal that he would come back and be my dad because we had things to teach and learn from each other.

As a toddler, he nicknamed me “Pea Person” and adored me as only a daddy can his first little girl. He showed his love through a fierce protectiveness that made me feel cared for and important. I went on to be an athlete which he related to, I was strong and competitive in most sports.  My athletic prowess bridged an otherwise increasing gap between a father and a growing girl.

At the age of 14, I moved away from home to attend the boarding school that my father had gone to. And his father before him, as well as some cousins and uncles from the Hudson family. I was the first girl, continuing tradition, yet blazing a trail. I believed I chose the school on my own accord because it had the finest women’s swimming program in New England.  Also, the boy I met in the library on my tour, who went on to be my first love, probably factored in. The fact that the school was a family tradition was to me at the time, coincidence. 

I grew to love my time at Loomis Chaffee and felt grounded in something deeper than just a high school experience. I felt connected to that paternal lineage that I was now redefining as a female and making my own.  I felt the energy of the place in my DNA and it felt sacred. From the sound of the train whistle heard from my dorm bed on cold winter nights to the loamy scent of earth from the surrounding meadows during spring rain storms, I felt connected to my ancestors. It felt like home and I grew into my own woman there.

I was in a hotel room in Milan in 1993 when I heard of the bombing.  My father worked on the fifty second floor of World Trade Center One. The news station had no information on casualties or details at that point. I ran out into the cold streets to use my phone card to call home, terrified at what I might find. My mother told me my dad had just walked through the door. He was completely black from smoke, having walked down 52 flights of stairs in the pitch dark, not knowing what he might find on the next floor.  I watched the snow swirl around me as the world felt ok again because my dad was still in it.

Years later in Los Angeles, I woke up one early morning sobbing from a dream. The details were clear in my mind as I called my dad at his office on Wall Street. I made him promise me that he wouldn’t leave yet, that he wasn’t going anywhere. He seemed affectionately amused by my emotion and assured me that all was fine and that I should try to go back to sleep as it was only 4:30 in the morning in LA.

Nine days later my dad had a heart attack. He felt a pain in his chest and told my mother to drive him to the hospital. He got there in time for medical intervention to save him.

That summer we sat side by side in rocking chairs gazing at the Long Island Sound.  I mentioned the phone call and how strange it was that I had that dream. He saw no correlation between the dream and the incident. Stung, I let it pass, understanding that some things so close are too hard to see. 

My dad and I differ in opinions on many subjects and have had intense conflicts at times. But always there is an underlying connection of this contract, this understanding of our lives and souls interconnected.

We share an affinity to Native American culture. In his retirement, my dad has become a talented and accomplished clay sculptor. He often sculpts figures of Apache warriors and the proud, weathered faces of Sioux Chiefs. The Native Americans believe the dream world to be more significant than the waking world. That the world we walk around in is the dream and when we close our eyes to sleep, we leave the constrictions of our bodies and roam free from the limitations of the earthly plane.  It is in this space that I know my dad and I understand and love each other in ways far more meaningful than this world will allow.