She said "you don't understand what I said"

I said "No, no, no, you're wrong."... -the Beatles

So, I'm taking a religion class this semester, & one of the things we had to do was write a paper, no more or less than 2 pages, about some experience or something that you feel strongly about. Emphasis on the feelings part... Well, how was I supposed to do that? I'm not exactly the best at describing my emotions, especially not when you impose some sort of length constraint-- it completely changes the game for me. Which got me to thinking about how I've never been that adept at expressing myself, or at least not in person. So I decided to do a little bit of a cop-out & write about when my dad died, but I didn't focus on the death, so much as the inability that I ever had to talk with him... So here's the "paper" that I turned in earlier, which is in short just a way of me telling the world that I'm too busy/lazy to write something new. Deal with it. :::

I was a very soft spoken child, to put it mildly. Much to the chagrin of both my parents, I seldom spoke much, and when I did it was usually in an “inside voice”. This meant that I never got in trouble for misbehaving, but it also meant that I missed out on some crucial connections with my parents and siblings that I’ll never be able to have again. Since my junior year of high school I have learned to step out of my comfort zone and open up to my family regarding my emotions, my fears, and my dreams, but I never understood just how much pain I must have caused my parents until now. I always assumed that if I did everything that my parents asked of me and followed the laws of the land as well as the laws of the gospel that Mum and Dad would be more than pleased with who I was. Yet, I wonder how much they were longing to have me talk with them during those formative years.

Don’t get me wrong, I did talk to my family, but I was always on the timid side. I preferred to think of myself as a great listener. For some people, though, listening isn’t enough—it sure wasn’t for my dad, at least. My father would never hear anything that I said, and I don’t mean that in the figurative sense. I remember saying something, probably pointless and obvious like “that’s a big burrito”, but because my dad couldn’t hear what I had said I would have to repeat it; then again, because I would mumble. This would go on until I had said the same phrase about four times, and I’d become painfully aware at just how pointless the sentence was. After a while I just stopped trying to say much around my father because I knew that I’d have to talk louder than I felt comfortable. To paraphrase a common saying, if you don’t have anything to say, why say anything at all?

All growing up, I continued to be shyly quiet at home. I even remember, very clearly, sitting at the kitchen table one September afternoon in 2002, with both of my parents in the room, to hear my dad say “Amanda is the most ungrateful child I have ever known.” It was as if I were invisible and deaf to him. I couldn’t say anything; I just sat there, thinking my response of, “it’s not that I don’t say ‘thank you,’ it’s that you never hear me when I do.” I was embarrassed, I was ashamed, and I was alone. It hurt to think that I felt more confident of my Heavenly Father being able to hear me when I pray, even though I can’t see Him, than my earthly father being able to hear me when I stood face to face with him.

The sentence mentioned earlier was the last thing I remember my dad saying to me before the crash. About a week later, as he was on his way to dialysis, my father drove his motorcycle into the back of a truck that was parked in the fast lane without its hazard lights on. He was air-lifted to an ICU in Los Angeles; later they’d move him to a hospital in Fontana that was closer to my mom’s work. He looked shrunken, he had a halo, and he had no teeth. This time, he was the one that couldn’t talk, and I still didn’t know what to say. I remember the frustration in his eyes as he struggled to grasp where he was and what had happened—he still thought that he needed to get to Pasadena for work. After about two weeks, he could walk-slightly- and things started to look better. He didn’t seem as confused, and was glad to see us visit. As I left his room one Sunday night, he looked me in the eyes and mouthed “I love you”, to which I replied “I love you, too, Dad.” The next morning I awoke to a dark, quiet house. My dad had died in the hospital that night. Although it took sixteen and a half years for him to hear me, at least I finally knew that he loved me, and that he knew that I loved him.