Kryptonite

March 7, 2011. This was the night my dad was struck by kryptonite. For years, I watched him leave for work in his crisp police uniform. Boots and belt always freshly polished, badge shining with the radiance of a planet in the night sky, and not a wrinkle or unintentional crease on his black, polyester shirt. Before he turned on the radio which hung on his right hip, he would always pick me up, hug me and tell me he loved me, along with my younger sister and brother. My dad was invincible. He was unbreakable. He was my hero.

As the years progressed, his uniform fit a little tighter. His boots sounded a little heavier. His radio pouch bore the scratches and scuffs that came with a decade of service. His love, however, remained the same. Every night, his first investigation would be to locate us in the house so he could tell us he loved us, ensuring that if anything happened to him that night there would be no doubt. While he completed this task, my mom would always be heating up our dinners and flipping our math books to the appropriate pages so that she could help us with our homework before bed. Once that was complete, she would then embrace him and give him a kiss, before patting his chest and saying “see you in the morning.”

Until I became a cop myself, I had no understanding of the torment she must’ve endured saying those words each night. It was a half-statement, half-prayer. Sidebar, I was never married, but my coworkers were, and I was a firsthand witness to the weight police work puts on a marriage. Police officers are taught for months in academy how not to communicate. How to remain stoic, and silent. To not take work home with you and to stow the calls you handled that night in the locker with your gun. I’m here to tell you that is not sustainable. Not in a healthy marriage, anyways. Communication is key, and what is even more key is finding a partner who is capable of listening to the horrors you traverse through for twelve hours a night, four days a week over the course of twenty years.

It started out as a normal Saturday afternoon. I had finished the mountain of homework I had let stack up throughout the week and was on my way downstairs to make a sandwich. As I went downstairs, I discovered my Mom preparing a rack of auburn, barbecue ribs. I couldn’t wait for that. The smell of rich hickory filled the living room where my ten-year old brother was playing with his Legos while Invader Zim shouted from the TV screen. I didn’t know where my sister was, but I assumed she was either at a friend’s house or a track meet. It didn’t matter to me, my day was booked. I was going to make this sandwich, then retreat to my room, put on my headphones and spend a good four to six hours on World of Warcraft until those beautiful ribs were done.

To my delight, my day continued exactly as planned. As I licked the last bit of evidence of barbecue sauce from my fingers, Mom let me get up from the table (as long as I put my plates in the dishwasher). I went back to my room, my sister met her friend for a walk around the lake, and my brother reconvened with his Legos. A few hours later, I came back downstairs to refill my water bottle, sneak a couple of the Blue Moon Belgian Whites my mom hadn’t used for the ribs, and grab a bag of Fritos. This should get me through the last half of my raid on Tempest Keep, I thought.

After a successfully conquering Prince Kael’Thas, I brushed my teeth, climbed into the metal bunk bed that canopied over my computer desk, and uttered the same monotonous prayer I had been saying since childhood. “Thank you for my friends, my family and my health, Amen” I recited with about as much enthusiasm as a weathered Branch Davidian, before pulling the comforter to the crook of my neck. What I had forgotten to do in my pre-sleep ritual, was empty my bladder. At around 1:30 AM, I woke up with a need to pee greater than Lance Armstrong after the Tour de France. I hopped down from my perch, nearly missing the last rung on the ladder, opened my door and shuffled to the bathroom.

On my way in, I noticed my parents’ door was open and the bed was still neatly made. Weird. I handled my business and drug my feet back to my room. At least, that was the plan. As I crossed the staircase, I was yanked to a halt when I heard something I had never heard before. I almost didn’t recognize the sound it was so foreign. It was the baritone quivering of my Dad crying. I slowed at the edge of the staircase and lingered for a moment. Then the soprano notes of my Mom’s sniffling chimed in. I checked my siblings’ doors, making sure they were shut and dark, before I sat down at the top of the staircase to listen.

I heard my Dad continue to cry before I could make out the phrase “I can’t do it.” I listened closer, leaning over so far I was at risk of falling down the stairs. The phrases continued, “I just can’t do it. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Followed by my Mom countering with “So you’re just going to walk out? You’re going to leave your family?” I had to trace my fingers up and down my arm at this point to verify this wasn’t a dream, or rather, a nightmare. It was not. I listened for as long as I could bear, which wasn’t long. I don’t know what I wanted to accomplish by it, other than perhaps to gather information so I would have something to offer when my little brother and sister asked why Daddy was gone. Finally, the crying slowed, the conversation ceased, and I heard the wheels of the rolling desk chair slide back indicating someone was standing up. I rapidly snuck back to my room, climbed in bed and cried myself to sleep as silently as I could.

The next few months will forever be seared in my memory as they have had immense impact on who I am today as a man. My parents calling us into their room to tell us about the affair and divorce, my Dad packing boxes in the middle of the day while we were doing our homework, alternate holidays spent in the tiny one-bedroom apartment my Dad rented down the street. I wouldn’t wish for any kid to experience these things, but it was what began to happen next that had the greatest impact on me. I saw my dad while he was broken. At arguably the lowest point of his life. I saw him down, but I did not see him quit. His marriage may have failed due to his mistake, but his kids were still alive and well and he did not take that for granted.

There were days after school where he would take us to a movie, or order us Papa John’s while we played Banjo Kazooie on X-Box with him in his apartment, or take us to the park to throw a football or Frisbee until it was time to head back to Mom’s. During those months, following that night on March 7, 2011, I transitioned from a seventeen-year-old boy who was behind on his math homework to an eighteen-year-old man who was tasked with raising his siblings and comforting his Mom when she needed it. All while starting my first full-time job, filling out college applications and planning the next chapter of my life.

I haven’t told him this, yet but maybe I should. Or, maybe he is reading this. But during that transitional period of my life, I couldn’t have accomplished those things without his help. He doesn’t know it, but I was observing him the whole way. Watching his character, admiring his fighting spirit to pick up the pieces of his life and begin rebuilding. To be present, any way he could, even if it caused him pain to see us living in the reality he walked away from. My dad made a mistake, and at 1:30 AM on the early morning of March 7, 2011 he was hit by kryptonite. He was made human from the invincible persona I had known until then. But in the months after he apologized to us through streaming tears before closing the trunk of his Dodge Dakota and driving off, I was able to learn more through his actions and reactions than I could’ve any other way. The way he carried himself and attempted to right the wrong he made spoke louder than a conversation on the matter ever could. He was teaching me everything without saying anything.

My Dad lives in Georgia now as I type this in Los Angeles, and we have a good relationship. We talk frequently on the phone, communicate in group chats with my siblings and he has since found another woman who loves him and treats him well. One of the topics we talk about often is film and television. Since I’m pursuing acting out here, he is always on the hunt for new recommendations to give me. He suggested a Pixar movie a couple of months back, and that night as I watched “Onward” with my girlfriend, something overcame me. In the [SPOILER ALERT] final scene where the older brother successfully gets to spend a brief moment with his Dad before he wisps away, returning to cosmic dust, I began to cry. Not because I was sad, or because I missed my own Dad who was three thousand miles away (I do). But because I thought of all those months after that night and all that I learned from him, even if he didn’t intend to teach it to me. I was crying because even though my Dad was struck by a meteor-sized chunk of kryptonite on March 7, 2011, on June 9, 2022, he is still my hero.