“I love you” x 3

For reasons a team of psychoanalysts might have been able to crack, my dad couldn’t get the three-word phrase “I love you” to come out of his mouth.

I knew he loved us.

It’s just he couldn’t say it.

I rationalized that I didn’t need to hear those three words, but it hurt anyway.

This is the story about how I got my dad close enough to saying it.

And, that was enough.

I take the red-eye flight from Los Angeles to New York, to visit.

Dad’s in the hospital.

Again.

It’s becoming more the rule than the exception that I stop at the hospital on the east side—Sloan Kettering—to visit him before going across town to see my mom and sister.

We don’t talk about it, but I can see it.

I know it.

Dad is dying.

After I land, Mom tells me that Dad has a feeding tube or he’s intubated or something—I get a bit dissociated around medical stuff, so I don’t remember what it was—but bottom line, “he won’t be able to talk.”

“I’ll talk enough for both of us,” I say.

I walk in.

He’s awake.

In his eyes I see the same emotions I have—a dash of delight for seeing each other, atop exhaustion and deep grief.

I tease, “Ma said I should do most of the talking,”

He nods.

I put my backpack down, reach in it, and take out some papers.

“The kids made you some pictures, Pops,” I say, trying to keep it light. ”And I brought a roll of tape, all the way from California—so let’s say I put some art on the wall and decorate this place.”

I talk.

He gestures responses.

After about 30 minutes, he indicates that he has had enough and is going to close his eyes.

“Alright, buddy. You want me to come back in a little while—after you have a nap? Or do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

He moves his hand in a slow, shallow arc from side to side.

“That means tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes,” he nods.

“Alright, buddy, tomorrow,” I say, and I give him a kiss on the forehead.

As I wrap my scarf around my neck and tuck it into my coat, I say, “Hey, Pops, I have three things I want to tell you.”

He looks at me.

The thing is, I don’t know what three things I am going to say.

But I’m not worried. The right words will follow. I’ve gotten myself into and out of situations like this before.

“Three things,” I repeat, stalling a moment as I hold up one finger and say, “First, I love you.”

We hold a moment of eye contact as I raise a second finger.

“Two,” I say, “I love you.”

Feels swell in my chest, and tears come to my eyes as I raise my third finger and say, “Three, I love you.”

As I pick up my bag, he waves to get my attention.

He looks at me and slowly raises one, then two, then three fingers—telling me that he loves me, too.