3rd Place Winner: Chana Brauser

Abba, Accidentally

The day my mother got the phone call with that calm voice asking her if she could please come to the hospital because her husband had been in a car accident ant to prepare herself for the worst was the day I temporarily lost my dad.

My parents were the sole recipients of my smiles, especially my father, whom I called "Abba". After a long day at work, my father would join my mother and me, and I would shower him with kisses and hugs and babbling. He was the one who would bathe me each night, feed me dinner, cut my toenails, even. When my mother was feeling especially brave, she would even allow him to dress me: I'd usually emerge triumphantly from the room, sporting a neon bright shirt under a fabulously frilly jumper, mismatched socks, and cowboy boots, with a giant bow pinned sideways onto a stray red curl. My mom would shake her head, sighing, but I'd just smile, proudly clutching my father's arm. As long as I was with Abba, I was happy.

That day, try as my mother might to hide her emotions, one look in her eyes was enough to bring me to tears. Together, we sobbed; my mother cried, remembering when the doctor had informed her that my father had suffered a head injury and the entire left side of his body was paralyzed, a factor that would probably prevent his ever walking again, my mother had grabbed the doctor by the color: "You are not G-d!" she had hissed "And until you have a decree signed by G-d himself declaring my husband will never walk again, you have no right to take away my home." And I cried, too, but I didn't even know why.

Over the course of the next few weeks, my mother discovered that she was pregnant, and I discovered that my father was lost somewhere inside a shell in a hospital bed. When my mother had first taken me to the hospital, pointing out a strange man lying lifeless amidst a tangle of tubes and calling him Abba, I looked up at her in disbelief; if he was my father, then why on earth was he just lying there, instead of pulling me into his arms for a hug?

For the ensuing months, as my father went back to the basics, re-learning how to walk and talk and even eat, my mother and I grew closer than ever. Incredibly, together we somehow managed to pretend that everything was okay; but then, my mother would accidentally wish for my dad aloud in a bout of frustration and then, together, we'd cry.

When my father finally walked back into the house one day, I did not appreciate the significance of his regained mobility. I saw only how he was unable to bathe me, or feed me, or dress me, and I knew that even though he was back in the house, he wasn't really home.

Eventually, he'd settle back into normal patterns and family life, but in the succeeding years, the specter of his accident would remain, lingering in the hushed or the scattered, inconclusive memories he's falsely recall that my mom would reply to with a look of utmost incredulity. But always, each time there'd be an argument or a mishap, my mother would pull me over to the side and remind me that it was the head injury, not my dad himself, rudely butting into our lives.

But the truth is, I don't need the reminder, I understand. With both my sister and my seven-year-old brother around, I hold the (the hard earned) title of "only child who knew Abba before" and I take this position very seriously. While I certainly cannot admit to constantly dwelling on the "before" and "after" of my dad (he has learned to manipulate his paralyzed left arm so well that I forget his injury was not only mental, but physical, too), I am acutely aware of his handicap, and I am becoming increasingly more adept at recognizing when it's Abba talking or when his head injury gets the better of him.

And despite it all, my dad is one of the most gentle, considerate, and genuinely caring people I know; and therein lies the difference, there are so many fathers out there who have not suffered a devastating car accident and traumatic head injury who could care less about how their children fared in school that day, or how their wife's PTA meeting played out; fathers don't take the time to peer through telescopes with their son, admire their daughter's latest scrapbook, or carefully read through the daughter's English essay; fathers who wouldn't know their daughter's favorite food, their wife's favorite scarf, their son's favorite superhero; fathers who come home from work stressed out and cranky; fathers who yell at their kids and wife; fathers who hit; fathers who cheat; fathers who abandon.

And then there's my dad. He doesn't always remember my friends' names, but he always remembers to say hi and ask how they are. He's sometimes too tired to go out Friday nights, but he's never to tired to read my poems. He sometimes forgets my teachers' names, but he never forgets how much I love Harry Potter. He sometimes has trouble focusing on our endless chatter at the dinner table, but he never has trouble finding the time to sit down with me and talk about anything I need to.

And so, when I see my father, facing the challenges of having only one working arm and the frustrating consequences of his accident with determination and endless optimism and being the best father and husband around, I can't help but think that maybe the "accident" wasn't such a bad accident after all.