My Dad, the Otologist

There are a million stories I could tell about my dad. Some are funny and jovial, but most are not. A few are downright unsuitable for an online audience. One tale in particular stands out in my memory, and I don't think I will ever find the words to tell it properly.

That said, one thing always brought my dad and me together; ear wax.

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Afternoon appointment

On lazy Sunday afternoons, when our bellies were full and the rest of the household was asleep in siesta, he would summon me to the patio. I would then sit between his legs, and angle my head every which way until the sunlight illuminated my ear canal adequately enough. He would reach for a matchstick or a crochet pin—never a cotton swab—and do what he did best. He would clean out my ears.

It's really hard to describe how it felt. It's like trying to describe chocolate to a T-Rex.

In, around, and out. Over and over. The middle ear is extremely sensitive, and the slightest touch of the walls creates a burst of pleasure rivalling the greatest of sexual crescendos. The world shrinks into that tiny nerve ending as it fires and fires again until your entire nervous system ignites in pure, unadulterated bliss.

I would sit there, shivering in ecstasy, while he meticulously extracted every cubic millimetre of ear wax. Sometimes, he would show me the monsters he found inside, and I would whimper my astonishment. It was all I could do to sit still for those seven-odd minutes.

My dad would have made a great otologist.

Or maybe fatherhood simply means being able to do the little things uncannily well, to form a connection—no matter how trivial—with your child when none exists.

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Candid conversation

Afterwards, when both my ears had been sanctified, we would talk. He usually asked what I was up to; school, chess and computers. I was very passionate about these things, but not around him, and I would reply as compactly as I could. Then the conversation would shift to him, and he would tell me things.

He was a verbose speaker, to say the least. I guess that's why he was an awesome salesman.

He would start with universal things; politics, soccer, and the like. We would talk about money, women, and religion. Then he inevitably grew dreamy and let his heart seep into the conversation.

My father wanted to be a farmer. His dreams were of lush green alfalfa fields overlaying the rich brown earth, of towering banana plants bent by succulent bunches of fruit, of ripe-to-bursting watermelons peeking through the foliage.

He heard the noises of thousands of pigs in his sleep, smelt the rich odour of fresh manure piled in great heaps, and felt the joys of a newly-mothered sow as her offspring suckled. He would describe these things so poignantly that I could almost see and hear and smell and feel them myself.

My dad was a fantastic storyteller.

Or maybe fatherhood simply means being able to alter reality with words, to inspire your child to dream big—no matter how big—and never stop dreaming.

* * * * *

Midnight meditation

There was only one problem with this arrangement. I had to clean his ears, too.

And I did, for hours every night for years. I think I clocked more than a thousand hours in total, in fact.

He couldn't sleep without me. His back had been ruined by manual labour, and tickling his ears was an oddly effective way of calming the incessant aches. So, just before bedtime, he would call me again. Then—with a cotton swab this time (yes, I'm a wise child)—I would get to work.

Of course, I wasn't as good as he was. I didn't even try to be. It felt like robbery to me; stealing a fraction of someone else's life just so you could get a good night's sleep?! I fumed in silence until the fire burnt itself out and left me exhausted.

But I couldn't leave, so I would sit by his side on the floor until he dozed off. Gently swirling a cotton-tipped tree branch in his ears at midnight, and enjoying my own company.

I learned to love the sound of nighttime, of crickets chirping in the bushes, of air being swooshed around in circles by the ceiling fan, of slow and heavy breathing. I learned to love the quiet of my thoughts.

My dad was an irritating person sometimes.

Or maybe fatherhood simply means being able to sleep through some undeserved animosity, to teach your child patience—and compassion and mindfulness—by letting him learn it himself.