My father was in a Florida hospital drugged up to mask the pain of the cancer that marched through him like Sherman through Atlanta during the Civil War, having begun in the lungs, jumped to his brain, and was now gnawing like a saw at his frail bones.

“Are you happy?” he asked me after I’d arrived in a rented car after flying down from Philadelphia with the goal of finding him a hospice, moving him in, then flying back to my family and job. This wasn’t a question he’d ever asked me, and I doubted he’d ever even thought of, because this was the man that once told me, “Life is too short for sentimentality.”

“I am.” I was.

Though his head seemed pea-size in the large fluffy pillow, he still struck a bit of fear in me. This was a father that seemed to enjoy sitting me down in a kitchen chair and cut my long hair to a short crewcut as a punishment once I grew to tall and strong to outgrow his chastisements that came in the form of yanking us up in the air by our arms and landing a smack of his wide hand on our butts. My brother and I were sent into a brisk pendulum motion. Depending upon the offense these smacks could occur multiple times. I never did tell him the bursitis in my right shoulder, which negatively affected my throwing arm from the outfield came from that lifting and smacking.

“That’s good. I never understood why you wasted so much time coaching your kids. Why you didn’t devote more time to your career. I hope you don’t end up regretting it.” He didn’t seem to expect an explanation, just wanted to get it on the record. Maybe another of the disappointments he could add to his long list.

My blood pressure jumped as I recalled never once playing catch with him and the one time he attended my little league game. I decided to remain silent, giving him the benefit of the doubt because of the cancer pain and his drug addled mind, though I realized the drugs just allowed him to express his truth. Though that truth hurt me and would remain like a scar, I knew they were his truths, and he wouldn’t regret expressing them. I should have told him I treated my kids like I would have liked to be treated.

He drifted off to sleep and as I stared at the bald, gray skin head. I recalled the only time he portrayed a loving father.

Sunday dinner was the only day of the week my brother and I ate with our parents and that was at the dining room table where we were taught proper table manners, how to say Grace in case we were ever called upon to do so outside of our house. This would save us the embarrassment of appearing unreligious which we were. Normally we were fed at the kitchen table while my parents had their cocktails.

That Sunday I went off on a tirade after hearing a second-grade friend explode my fantasy of Christmas on Friday afternoon. It had been building up all weekend.

“Jimmy at school, told a bunch of us that there is no Santa Claus.” My tone was almost to the scream level, which would normally have been a punishable offense, another striking blow. Like most kids, Santa was special, probably because I couldn’t imagine my father giving the type of gifts I received at Christmas.

His initial response was silence, which initially frightened me. Then he began in a muted voice as he sat back in his chair. “You tell Jimmy that when I was your age, I was lying in bed on Christmas Eve, so excited for Santa I tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep.” He paused to take a sip of wine. My brother and I had inched to the edge of our chairs, our mouths wide open in expectation, totally immersed in his calm words because we were used to hollers and degradations.

“Suddenly I heard a scratching on the roof.” He looked up to the ceiling with wide eyes. “I slept in the attic and the scratching was right above my head. I had never heard a sound like that before, and was so curious, I crawled out of bed and snuck carefully down the stairs, crept past the Christmas tree, which I quickly noticed had a few new packages under it. I carefully turned the front door handle, not wanting to wake my parents, and slipped outside into the cold night air, into the front yard just in time to see Santa’s sleigh and all the reindeer lift off my roof. I stepped out into the fluffy snow to get a better view and watched in awe as the sleigh flew to my neighbor’s house and landed gingerly on their roof. Santa climbed out of his seat, grabbed his big bag, and disappeared down their chimney. My feet were freezing in the snow as I stared at the steam puffs from the reindeer’s nostrils as they snorted. Suddenly Santa appeared and jumped back into his sleigh.” Dad snapped his fingers which startled us out of our trance. “And just like that, they flew off over the trees toward the next neighborhood. I was shivering with cold and excitement and raced back inside and up the stairs on my numb bare feet and jumped under the covers, rubbing them to get them warm until I drifted off to sleep.”

My brother and I finally shut our mouths. “Wait til I tell Jimmy that my father actually saw Santa Claus!” I had never been prouder of my dad.

I stood over my dying dad, once a tall man, who had now shrunk to child size, wetly breathing with difficulty, and smiled softly. I reached out and gently rubbed his bald head. He may never have played catch with me and only showed up to watch one of my games, but he did spin a Christmas tale that delighted his two sons during Sunday dinner many years before. I wondered if he would recall that night but decided not to ask. Why risk it?