Points of failure: Playing
- Jun 28
- 3 min read
This month I returned home to find my dad in a walker.
He’s no longer able to go on his neighborhood strolls, or leave the house at all without help. He used to walk a few miles every day. It was his source of joy and a big point of pride, but the cancer treatments that saved his life also ruined his mobility.
I know he’s depressed about his condition, but you won’t ever hear him say that. He is a brick wall when it comes to emoting. In the last few years, as I was in therapy learning how to express my feelings, he went in the opposite direction. Hardening.
I’ve held resentment towards him because of how hardheaded he’s become. He’s declined physical therapy, stopped taking his meds, and refused to cooperate with his doctor’s orders. It seemed like he did everything he could to make things harder for those of us trying to help him. But on this trip, I could see he was visibly sad.
His brush-offs were no longer convincing.
I spent ten days at home meeting his doctors to get clarity on his condition. One day, after visiting two clinics and returning home exhausted from the traffic and the heat, I found my five-year-old niece waiting for me to take her outside and play. Even in the humid, 100 degree weather, I couldn’t resist her pleading.
My dad asked to join us so I took both of them outside. She bounced around with all the energy in the world as he ambled behind her. I had a moment of insight when I saw her pink bike parked next to his walker:
We're all on a journey back to childhood.
They are a lifetime apart but often act the same age. I’ve seen them both throw a tantrum if they don’t get their way, and they each have a hard time accepting where they are in life; except one swears she’s grown, the other argues that he’s still mobile. That night I asked him about his childhood. He denied it, but I’ve always suspected he refuses help because he grew up feeling undeserving.
I shared this observation with his doctor, who has treated hundreds of men his age and in similar conditions. She explained that the same defense mechanisms he uses today likely formed while growing up poor in rural Dominican Republic under a tyrannical regime. The youngest of six, and forced to work from an early age, he is acting out the only version of childhood he knows; not playing games, but playing defense.
I had been asking more of him than he knew how to give.
It was a hectic trip. In the end I was drained of energy but satisfied because I left things better than I’d found them; my dad is now open to taking his medicines, and there is a treatment plan in motion. And while it’s frustrating that it took this long for him to come around, I understand him better now.
What a shame, I thought, to live unaware of one’s conditioning. I felt his lament second-hand.
That week I had journaled about how I am on a journey to live the truest version of myself, to uphold what makes me unique. A return to center after all the macho-programming and the side quests that modern society sent me on. I’m convinced that embracing my inner world is my advantage and my best offering.
By the time I was on my flight back, I was itching to get back to my studio and to my writing.
To play.
I also write a weekly journal entry where I share my path towards a creative living, and hold myself accountable to putting in the hours.
