Piss and Vinegar

I don't often see my dad angry.

He's a pretty mild-mannered sort—the kind typically described as amiable, agreeable, or easygoing. He makes friends easily and has been known to develop relationships with a token-booth clerk at his subway stop and a waitress at the diner he frequents. He got to know the waitress so well that when she quit to go back to school, he took her out to lunch.

Even at the hospital, he's endeared himself to more nurses, doctors, and technicians than I can count. He charms them, jokes with them, and even proposes marriage to them. Well, to the single women at least—but only in front of my mother, as he's quick to point out. He's not trying to get away with anything.

He's sweet and good-natured and funny.

But 19 days in intensive care is more than anyone should have to bear. Especially when Diet Coke—the kind that comes straight out of the bottle or can, with no thickener added—is verboten. To an outsider, that might seem like the least of the indignities perpetrated on my dad in the ICU, but to him it is everything.

And today he'd had enough.

I think it's fair to say that he threw a fit. Pounded his fists and thrashed around and shouted as much as he is able to shout given that his voice is incredibly weak and he had a special breathing mask strapped to his face.

I honestly don't think I've ever seen him that mad in my entire life.

And while I did not for one second enjoy seeing him that way, it was heartening to have unequivocal proof that his spirit is intact.

That he's got the strength to assert himself and the will to make his wishes known.

That he can give as good as he gets, and then some.

That behind the mask and the IV lines and the catheter and anything else that might come between him and the world, he is still undeniably my dad.

Because tomorrow is Day 20.