Speaking in Tongues

By Niall Twohig

To Dearest Aislynn, on Saint Patrick’s Day 2023:

Da and I got in our worst fight that day. What set it off was a near fall getting out of the car. He was supposed to wait for me to round the car with the walker, but he didn’t. Instead, he got out as a young man would, putting all weight on one leg and hoisting himself up. But his leg was not a young man’s leg. It was old, unstable and weak. He wobbled precariously and I caught him just in time.

This frustrated me: another near disaster. I had you, Aislynn, to tend to. You were only months old. I couldn’t split my time – again – at home, campus, hospital. I was worn too thin, as was your mom.

So, I caught Da angrily. Not a trace of tenderness. I asked him why he couldn’t follow simple guidelines, why he constantly failed.

The seven-yard walk from the car to his apartment, adjacent to our own, was slowed by his awkward movements and our anger. I stopped to adjust his walker.

That’s it Da, I said venomously, I have to put you in a home. There’s no other way. He hated hearing this. I knew.

His face hardened into a smug mask. The old defenses of fatherhood appeared, calcified now, by old age and dementia. Who are you to tell me what to do? Get out of my way, won’t ya! Just leave me alone!

He tried to edge past me, but I easily outpaced him.

The three steps to his apartment always posed a challenge, more so now in this mood. I went first, unlocking the door, while he hunched over his walker behind me. I leaned back to haul him up in the walker, as he lifted his near useless legs step by step by step. When he got to the top, he said something cruel under his breath.

I reacted furiously, the way Ma once did when he said just that thing that would free himself from blame while demolishing her. I guess we call this gaslighting now.

In that moment, I wanted to hit him. All I could muster was a quick upward swipe that tipped the cap off his head, the way kids did in seventh grade.

But this was enough. That unexpected violent movement sent him wobbling. I saw gravity take hold of his body, tilting it back over the steps, past a point of no return. He was falling slowly, fatally. The three steps, I knew in his case, might has well have been a mountain.

Time slowed enough for me to think about letting gravity do its work. How easy that would make my life. Another part of me knew I couldn’t let our story end this way, in anger and pain and guilt. Not with you next door. This ending couldn’t be your beginning.

I caught him. And, in one sweeping motion, heaved his fragile body into the apartment and into his recliner. There was something terribly graceful about it.

I screamed then, my face to his, and at the top of my lungs.

Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!

I wanted that so badly. No more of this drama and bickering. Just the physicality of being hit by him.

Da looked at me, shocked, his Soul now peering through the fog of anger, time, and dementia. His mask melted, and he saw through mine.

Hit you? How could I hit you, Niall?

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your mom had heard my screams next door. She came running in with you in her arms. She did her best to defuse what remained of the tension. I ran off as she tried calming Da, his anger now turned to worry.

I refused to see him, or care for him, the rest of the day. Was it shame or spite? Probably a mix of the two that left him alone, his broken body and mind trying to make sense of our altercation.

It proved too much for him.

Lianne found him that evening in the same seat, dazed, speaking gibberish, unable to stand. He had soiled himself. His blood pressure and blood sugar were skyrocketing. 

I was numb when I saw him. No pity, even (I recall, as a child, seeing Ma wear this mask when Da fell into a diabetic shock). All I knew was that I had to decide: call the ambulance or ride it out to see if he recovered. That clinical side of me, the side inherited from the nurse, knew that Da would not survive the ambulance ride along with the stress and strain of being lifted from cold gurneys to ER beds.

I told Lianne to bring you back home. I’d watch over Da to see what the night would bring.

I hoisted him out of the chair and carried him to his bed. I remember the stiffness of his body, the weariness of his moan, the stink of his shit. All of this scared me. But it also softened me. I was no longer the same character in that story we had been living earlier. I was me again.

I sat watch over Da, checking in with your mom occasionally over text. By 1 a.m., he hadn’t improved. His face was twisted in pain. His breathing slow and shallow. Thinking these might be his last hours, I cracked wide open.

I’m sorry, Da. I’m so so sorry. It’s just been so hard. Please, please, please forgive me.

By 2 a.m., he showed signs of improvement. His blood pressure and blood sugar dropped below the danger zones. His face showed less pain. His breathing eased. You, next door, were deep in sleep, while your mom sat vigil through text.

Seeing these signs, I decided to carry Da to the bathroom to clean him. I felt like I was carrying a sleeping baby now, the tenderness restored. I wiped his bum as I’d wipe yours in the months and years to come. It’s okay, Da. It’s okay. Just a little bit more.

And back to bed again. I prayed over him, running my hand through his greasy hair. No signs of life other than the breath.

Finally, at 3 a.m., his eyes opened and met mine.

Da, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. I said through tears.

The gibberish he had spoken earlier to Lianne started to wind its way into logical patterns. It gained structure, coherence. Not English but Gaelic. A part of his aged brain pulled him to his homeland, to his roots, to the mother tongue Celtic schoolteachers would not let him forget.

I never learned a lick of the language, but I understood every word. His eyes, his whole body, spoke their meaning to me.

Ah, it’s okay, Niall. It’s okay. There’s nothing to be sorry about.

I embraced him as I hadn’t embraced him in years.

I wonder now, as I write, if this is what the Apostles experienced on Pentecost when they walked into the wide world. Jesus had been taken from them brutally. But something couldn’t be taken. He had opened their hearts, brought them to the timeless and maskless place where they experienced True Communion. They embodied his Spirit, his Love. That allowed them to understand the rhythms of the Heart that lay behind all spoken words, just as I understood Da’s rhythms. That allowed them to reach the other through the language of the Heart, just as Da reached me in the quiet of that room where you came into being.

I feel those rhythms now, the Eternal heartbeat, in these words I have written to you as testament to a hard day that taught me what it means to speak in tongues.

Inheritance of Light >