How Can a Son Change His Father?
Today, I talked to my mom on the phone for a little younger than usual. Often, the conversations get cut with my curt tone, like scissors, when I say things like “nothing” or “nothing’s really going on.” But it was a good talk this time, as it seemed like she wanted to vent while driving (on Bluetooth). We didn’t say as much about me, but nothing fills up time like a good rant about my dad.
“Like talking to a wall” a common descriptor for Tata, rolled through the cellphone in Polish, summing up the situations but not ending there at all. There’s his weight. Eating habits. Sleeping schedule. Lack of activity. TV watching. The one mobile game that takes up a ton of his time. Nasty remarks or answers whenever we address anything.
Most of the time, whenever any of these are brought up, he closes up. He doesn’t answer and just keeps doing what he does. Or he mocks you, repeating the answer like a chorus. Or exaggerates the situation and mounts outrage. “When’s the last time I had ice cream?” “I haven’t used mayonnaise in months.” “I have to have coffee cake when drinking it.” There’s a litany to compose from those. There’s always a deflection, most often though, avoidance.
In December 2015, his weight came to an alarming level. It was 254 lbs, I believe. He’s 5'10", after 50 years old. There was one big discussion which I called a “battle.” Hard to recall how it initiated. We engaged in the kitchen, my mom assisted me like a lieutenant, the kitchen turning into the battle theater as usual, the catalyst most likely a smuggled sandwich or an excessive amount of ice cream with thick alcohol on top. Hard to mince words there, but not much to say other than “you’re coming up on a stroke/heart attack/disease/disability/place of no return.”
Sometime in June 2016, we went to the gym where I go to get him signed up. Orientation time. I urged the trainer to test his BMI and body fat. At around 33 BMI, it’s a dangerous level of obesity that leads to a full list of problems, longer than anyone can remember. We signed up for the gym. Just $10 a month along with an initiation fee. He has therapy as well. He doesn’t know how to work out on his own, but I can be there. I went with him for the first time, supportive as I could — not as much as a personal trainer, doting over every motion, but more as a guide.
That was the only time he’s ever gone to that gym and hasn’t come back. He continues paying for it.
However, an overall pretend “diet” sorta worked. He started losing, getting down to about 244 or 240. It was obvious that he cut his portions. We didn’t directly control everything, as we can’t monitor him all the time. As an adult, he still has freedom to get some McDonald’s when he’s out. To buy that bacon and cakes, which we won’t, but he will, and eat it on his own. Throwing out any food is wasting. The mention of throwing anything away is close to a triggering aspect for Tata.
Toward the end of 2016, the scale started shifting upward again. His cheeks and neck look heavier. He likes to wake up at 11 a.m. to start his day in an agonizingly slow manner, sitting in the bathroom for often a literal hour — an honest hour on the toilet, which involves less actual bodily functions, but more time on the phone or tablet, devoted to the mobile game. There’s no gym time. He’ll continue with this sleep schedule, taking naps throughout the day, then staying up till like 3 a.m., watching all the DVR shows that he has backlogged, the roomy hard-drive filled up to the brim, because he just has to watch every news program even if it’s from months ago, and whatever other Polish shows there are. If he wasn’t Catholic, you could say the DVR is his religion, the living room his church, and the couch, which will continue sinking, his pew.
The food habits haven’t changed at all. Nothing has changed, because my mom has long given up. It’s been too stressful to continue this guerrilla warfare. Cold war isn’t better, but it’s a little healthier overall. I usually headed the assault banner, but I moved out five months ago, leaving my elder brother. Now his tension has steadily climbed, reflected in annoyed tones and moderate outbursts that overflow after seeing all these habits. My mom relayed that she told Tata that if this continues, his own children won’t want to see him, at all, or hang out with him.
I moved out partially to escape this vortex, to get distance, but now that I’m hearing all about this, it just makes me wonder yet again, what can I do? Return to the battlefield, storm the front, declare a war? I am hardly in the position to just start talking my father down about all this (and I have plenty of faults and current shortcomings). Confrontations get volatile, and so many times I’ve asked, “when are you going to start the diet? when are you going to the gym?” only to get exasperated answers that held no weight. Talking just doesn’t do it. There’s a mental blockade.
