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Bear

by Emily Kersey

By Emily KerseyPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
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Bear
Photo by sarandy westfall on Unsplash

My father was a prideful man. He was the kind of man that traveled across the U.S. on a motorcycle. And the kind of man that would speed up past cops just to prove a point. He was the kind of man that would never zip up his coat when he would ski, and just let his jacket fly behind him in the wind. He was the kind of man that drove a mustang, and the type of man that rarely asked for permission.

My father was also a gentle man. He was the type of man that would never tell your secrets. And the type of man that would cry easily during movies. He was the type of man that was always better at listening, and the type of man that would bring home your favorite snack just because. He was the type of man that apologized when he made a mistake and the type of man that would moonwalk around the house in his boxers. And he the type of man that would put a pot on his head the first time your boyfriend came over just to embarrass you.

My dad was also the type of man to swear he would never get a chihuahua. Yappy, annoying little things. That was the prideful man in him.

My dad struggled with alcoholism throughout my life. It was a painful cycle of him binging, acknowledging his problem, seeking help, swearing to be a different man, and then falling back into another binge. I was used to this cycle and learned how to deal with it.

I was used to him driving during his binges, and at a certain point, I started to believe my dad was different than the other drunk drivers. He must have been better at it. But of course, things catch up to a person, and one day I got a call from my mother that he was in the hospital in a coma. He had turned left in front of another car, seconds before being back at his office. Seconds before once again beating the odds of driving drunk and not dying.

His car spun out, and he sustained a severe brain injury, and we knew that if he was going to wake up, he would be different. Would he be paralyzed? Would he be unable to speak or would he no longer be able to regulate his emotions? Or would he be the same? Nobody knew the answers, not even doctors. He had to be transferred to a brain injury-specific hospital in Washington D.C. My family made the decision that for a few months he would stay there, and his sister, who lived nearby, could check on him while he was there. Washington D.C was eight hours away and my mom worked full time in the emergency room and all of us kids were in school; we were unable to visit.

My dad woke up. He spent a few more weeks in rehabilitation in the hospital, and then it was finally time to go home. But not home, home. He had to stay in D.C. at his sister’s house because of biweekly visits to the hospital for rehabilitation. He was in D.C. for six months, and for six months, I was only able to hear his voice over the phone.

When it was time to go pick him up and bring him home, my mom, myself, and my two brothers pilled into the car and drove the six hours to D.C. We argued less than normal during this car ride. My mom dropped us off in Colonial Williamsburg while she went and got my dad from his sister’s house. She needed a bit of alone time with him first. She was back in about an hour and my dad was in the passenger seat. I wept.

He was different, but he was still my dad.

This, I was expecting though. What I was not expecting, was to see a small brown chihuahua sitting on my father’s lap.

My father. My father. With a chihuahua.

After his brain injury, my father’s pride was gone, but all of his gentlenesses remained.

While he was in D.C. he decided he wanted an emotional support dog that could comfort him. His sister took him to the shelter and he spent time with many dogs. Large, fluffy, dogs. All dogs that he would have loved before his wreck. But then he saw Bear, a dark chocolate, twenty-five-pound dog with eyes as big as his head. My dad said he knew immediately. Bear was the one.

The five of us piled in the car, Bear trading between our laps, and we drove home. We all fell in love with Bear immediately. He was a part of the family, and in many ways, he gave my father much of the comfort, stability, and self-love he lost because of his brain injury. Every day, Bear would bury his face in my father’s chest and watch movies with him all day. He never left my father’s side, pitter-pattering at his feet anywhere he would walk. My dad loved Bear with all of his heart.

My father passed away a few years ago, but Bear has been shown no less love. Bear is a constant reminder of all of the gentle love my father had to offer the world, and of the large impact that such a small little creature can make, as cheesy as it sounds.

Bear still prefers to spend his days on the couch, in the spot my dad used to sit, sleeping in the sunlight.

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About the Creator

Emily Kersey

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