The Garden of Him
My father raised many things, including a son who took a lifetime to appreciate his dad's gift.
This is the fifth Father’s Day without my dad, Manuel Leite, who died after a long, brutal battle with mesothelioma and congestive heart failure.
We had a complicated relationship. When I was growing up, we didn’t “get” each other. Being an Azorean immigrant, he was preternaturally connected to the earth; I hated manual labor. I loved everything to do with pop culture; he just shook his head and shrugged.
During the last several years of his life, we grew very close. Old resentments, arguments, and misunderstandings just didn’t seem worth clutching.
Then, in December 2019, after a three-hour drive, I burst into the breezeway of their home to surprise my father. He and my mother were shrugging on their coats and heading to the garage. My mother shook her head. Translation: Don’t make a scene.
As I was helping my dad into the car to take him to the hospital for the thirteenth and final time, he looked at me with pained eyes and said, “Son, I want to die.” Biting back tears because my mother was in the backseat and would throw a fit if anyone cracked, I kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “I know, Daddy.” And then…“I’ll do all I can to help you.”
After three agonizing weeks in the cardiac ICU, he called me close, pulled the intubation tube to one side so he could speak, and said, “I’m done.” He asked me to have the nurses take him off morphine and stop the pump that was draining his lungs.
Once the morphine wore off and he was free of medical interference, he rallied; apparently, that’s common before death. I don’t mean mustering the strength to squeeze a few hands and smiling beatifically. I mean rally. Deprived of food for three weeks, he ate and drank with gusto. He asked me to bring him some of his homemade wine. He flirted shamelessly with the young nurse in front of my mom and had me dial his sisters in Boston, and in a big jovial voice grated raw by the tubes, invited the extended family to visit the next morning.
On a roll, he motioned for a piece of paper. In his nearly unrecognizable handwriting, he scribbled, “My dearest son, I will always love you and momma. Love, Daddy.” I didn’t care what my mother thought. I let myself fall apart. My dad summoned me up to the bed, and we held each other, crying, snot running down our faces. Tears gave way to laughter as we realized the lunacy of it all. Then, quiet, looking at each other, understanding the panicked urgency of the moment, we cried again—uncontrollable, deep-belly, cleansing sobs.
A while later, my parents’ pastor and his wife stopped by, and the party atmosphere returned. With my father holding court from the bed, I slipped out, certain he had another day or two in him. Back at my parents’ home, I was getting ready for what I was sure would be my first restful night in weeks.
Several minutes later, my mother called. “Please pick me up.” It was her time to weep.
To honor the man who taught me so much, I'm posting my 2015 Father’s Day essay about Papa Leite.