How beating up a sack of potatoes helped me deal with my father's illness #Tough Stuff#adult parent/child relationships#grown ups#medical conditions#relationships Updated Oct 12 2015 (Posted Feb 18 2013) Guest post by Jennie Photo by sethoscope used by CC license When I took Introductory Spanish, one of the first vocabulary words I retained was "papa." Papa means "potato" and, because potatoes are delicious, I remembered the name. However — etymology is funny sometimes — add an accent mark and you have "papá," meaning "dad." I grew up in the southern US, very much a non-Spanish speaker. I called my father Papa but it wasn't a celebration of a second language. Rather, it was something baby-me said that my folks encouraged, blissfully unaware that without the crucial accent mark I was basically calling my dad Mr. Potato Head. By my junior year of college I had learned about this funny quirk, but Papa he had always been and so he would remain. He was Papa when I walked for graduation; Papa when I moved to Mexico to teach English; Papa when I returned home two years later to find him… very sick. My father's illness While I'd been gone, my dad's health had experienced a major turn for the worse. A string of unfortunate events left him with severe nerve damage in both legs. This brought on a host of related problems including weight gain and a diagnosis of congestive heart failure. (They couldn't have given that condition a friendlier name?!) Of course the whole family was concerned, but with medicine and regular check-ups, life rolled along smoothly enough. I moved in with my boyfriend J and was thrilled that he and my dad really hit it off. Then came the 2:00 a.m. phone call. My mom spoke in a tight, scared voice as she told me Papa was being airlifted from their small town to the capital city where I lived. His heart condition had triggered acute kidney failure and he was in and out of consciousness, rapidly sliding closer to death. There was a chance he could be saved by emergency treatment with specialists in my city, and so in the pitch black night he'd been loaded into a helicopter and rushed away, leaving my mom to follow in her car. Stuck interminable miles behind him, she asked me to meet my Papa at the hospital so he wouldn't be alone. I said yes and hung up in a daze. J found me curled on the stairs, half-heartedly crying but mostly just stunned. As he wiped away my tears, I felt myself moving from shock to distress to simmering frustration. I hate being helpless, and now one of my favorite people was scared and in danger and there was nothing I could do. I had started to pound the stairs with my fist when J abruptly jumped up and asked how much time there was to kill before the helicopter arrived. I told him I had an hour and, next thing I knew, he was out the front door with a shout of, "Be right back! I'm running to the store!" Related Post My mom doesn’t like me: parental estrangement and lessons learned Sometimes, your own best intentions and healthy patterns can't cancel out the choices your parents make. It isn't an easy decision to come to, to... Read more I dragged myself upstairs to pack a bag. My thoughts were whirling in conflicted downward spirals; I had to be composed when I finally saw Papa. I had to be strong and smile and keep his spirits up. But my nerves were frayed and all I could think was that the next time I saw him might be the last. As I battled to get myself in a state of mind to handle the situation gracefully, J walked back in shouldering a huge sack of potatoes. Yes, my husband walked in with a sack of potatoes I watched in bewilderment as he retrieved a two-handed sword from under our bed. (Yeah, he collects those.) Then I followed him outside to the patio. As I huddled down in my fleece, standing in the chilly pool of light from our one outdoor bulb, he explained: "You need to hit things. Hard." Suddenly, I was in a batting stance engrained from eight years of softball. Suddenly, he was ripping open the bag of spuds and pitching a lumpy potato at my head. Suddenly, I was swinging away with the sword and slicing that massive potato clean through on my first try, transforming into A League of Their Own's Dottie Henson and Xena the Warrior Princess all at once. It. Was. AWESOME. For the next half hour I wailed on those potatoes. I carved; I diced; most of all, I didn't have time to think or feel. I just defeated one potato after another as J tossed them my way. Somewhere in the middle of this bizarre exercise, my fear and anger were replaced with a sense of composed determination. I had taken on those papas, and I would take on this crisis with my Papa in just the same way. Finally, with the sack empty and the yard littered with starchy debris, I got in the car and went to my dad's side. As his gurney was rolled in, I had a few minutes to hold his hand and talk with him and we even managed some smiles. Finally, with the sack empty and the yard littered with starchy debris, I got in the car and went to my dad's side. As his gurney was rolled in, I had a few minutes to hold his hand and talk with him and we even managed some smiles. By the time he was taken away for treatment, I think we both felt much braver. How'd it end up? In the end, my father beat the odds. After several days his kidneys recovered and soon enough he was back home – not in perfect health, but alive. Since then, he's danced with me at my wedding (yes, to the infinitely amazing J) and he and Mom have moved to my city to be closer to his doctors. Next weekend we have a father/daughter date to visit a shooting range together, and I plan on using potatoes for target practice. The real story here, though, is not a celebration of my Papa surviving a near-death experience. Deeply grateful as I am for that, the life-affirming lesson I learned while sword-fighting potatoes in the dark was about the power the ridiculous has to buoy the human spirit. Sometimes, giving in to utter silliness at what seems like exactly the wrong moment is the perfect way to fight giving in to something darker. Reporter Name * Reporter Email * Original text Enter the original text here. Edited text* Enter your suggested copyedit here. Notes You can add a note for the editor here. * Required information. Fix Typo Jennie Jennie is the coordinator for a university writing program. She loves playing with ideas, dogs, and her husband and friends. She firmly believes there is no such thing as coincidence. PREVIOUS The 5 eco-friendly products that make my home more green NEXT Rewind to autumn with this Canadian engagement-meets-family-meets-maternity session Show/Hide comments [ 13 ] This made me cry. It's those moments under crisis that make you know you've found the right partner. Reply I was going to say the same thing. Sounds like she has one heck of a keeper there. Reply Anie, your comment makes me feel wonderful. This is the first time I've ever been published online and it's a story that's dear to my heart, so knowing it touched you absolutely makes my day! Reply In times of stress, I sometimes throw eggs at my garage. It is remarkably satisfying. I recently let my newly-teen daughter in on the secret. It was a mother-daughter moment that I will forever treasure. Wishing you and your Papa all the best! Reply That's kind of amazing. If you have any more mother-daughter stories you're willing to share, I'd love to hear! Reply Loved this… Reply I'm very glad that you're dad pulled through, and congrats to you and J! He sounds like a great guy. I did something very similar when I found out that my grandfather's health was declining and he didn't have long to live. It was right before Halloween and I was carving pumpkins. In my grief and frustration, I just started stabbing one of the pumpkins in my kitchen. My husband stopped me because he was afraid I was going to cut myself. But then he grabbed his baseball bat, we headed outside, and I beat the pulp out of that pumpkin. It really did help. My grandfather passed away the following January, but I'm grateful for the time I got to spend with him. Reply Good. Husband. 🙂 Reply When I found out my Dad had renal cancer last May I immediately drove to the store and bought the largest container of chocolate soft serve frozen yogurt I could find. I arrived back home and gave it to my (then) 18 month old son and just let him go crazy on it in his high chair. There we were sitting face to face with me bawling my eyes out and him completely oblivious and in sticky chocolate heaven. I don't know what inspired me to do it but it really did help. I can't remember ever acting out in rage my entire life but I can absolutely understand the urge to do unusual things during hard times. Reply I think it's really inspirational that you transformed something hard into a good memory of your young son. That's a kind of remarkable way to let him share in the moment, even without understanding… Reply I love this so, so much. Reply Hi, everyone! This is Jennie, the poster, and I wanted to thank you so much for reading and sharing your good wishes and your stories. I *love* knowing that other people also take out their stress on produce and dairy products! Whatever works, right? Reply Whenever the eggs go bad in our house, we throw them in the back forty with the things that piss us off written on the sides. For example, rape, domestic violence, a few exes, situations, loss of money, dropping one of the rotten eggs in the house (EWW). It's always satisfying to hear the PLUNK in the mud. Reply Join the conversation Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *Comment Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Notify me of follow-up comments by email. No-drama comment policy Part of what makes the Offbeat Empire different is our commitment to civil, constructive commenting. Make sure you're familiar with our no-drama comment policy.