Papa, don't you know I had no choice?

Two weeks after nearly having an aneurysm at Christmas Eve dinner at his mom's, Luis bravely returned to Maryland yesterday to support his mother as she copes--or rather, fails to cope--with her husband Frank's triple bypass surgery. Luis has a complicated family history, and his feelings about Frank are not all that mixed. I'd like to say I can't relate; but truthfully, I relate all too well. It's hard to have compassion for someone you don't like, regardless of his relationship to you. Luis loves his mom and is worried about her, even if she is Republican, but he doesn't understand her undying devotion after 30 years to his pompous, supercilious stepfather.

Whenever the phone rings, Luis rolls his eyes. "Ecch. Let's see what's on today's episode of Martinez Family Drama." In the days before Frank's surgery, the hysterical phone calls came every half hour. What if the hospital is incompetent? What if there are complications? What if he dies? All valid worries, to be sure, but the unabating theatrics prompted Luis to finally put his phone on mute. "My sister says there's no movie she's seen that can accurately describe the performance of my mother," Luis said. "She's practically been in a fetal position all week."

The day of the operation came, and Frank came through surgery without dying. He had beating heart surgery, also known as minimally invasive heart surgery. This type of surgery is considered less risky than conventional open-heart surgery, during which the heart is stopped and the patient is placed on a heart-lung machine. More than half a million bypass surgeries are performed each year in the United States. The success rate is between 95 and 98 percent.

By the next day, Frank had developed pain in his legs and had internal hemorrhaging, so the doctors had to give him a transfusion. Luis's mom was inconsolable and started second-guessing the doctor. "Mother," Luis said as patiently as he could, "the man just had three arteries removed from his legs. Don't you think your legs would hurt?"

Since then, Frank has had various other side effects--bloated legs, weakness in his lungs, an irregular heartbeat, fluid buildup in his lungs. His mother was acting like Susan Hayward in I'll Cry Tomorrow, even on Valium, so Luis decided he had to talk to a sane person and get the facts. He called his friend Tomas's father, who is a cardiologist. Luis described everything that had been happening to Frank, and Tomas's father explained that all of those symptoms were a normal part of recovery, including the irregular heartbeat. It doesn't mean Frank is out of the woods, but it also doesn't mean he's at death's door.

"When all of this is over," Luis said, "I'm going to tell her she's been acting like a Latina. That will really push her over the edge."

Frank's children live on other continents, Ruth in Australia and York in England. When told of her father's impending surgery by phone, Ruth said, "Crikey!...I'll call you back." She called back four days later. His son York straddled the fence about whether he should come over. "It says a lot about Frank," Luis said, "that his own kids are so torn about coming. But then you reap what you sow."

How true.

Think I'll color this man father
I think I'll color him love
Said I'm gonna color him father
I think I'll color the man love, yes I will

When my dad died in 2000, after a long bout with pneumonia, cancer, and cirrhosis, Mom had him cremated. She picked out an urn, and the funeral director was responsible for procuring a space for it at Greenwood Crematorium. Someone screwed up, and the urn didn't fit the space. The funeral director said Mom would have to buy a bigger space--for almost $2,000 more.

"No way," she said, puffing a Marlboro Light. "I'm not spending that kind of money for a space. I'll keep the urn until I figure out what to do with it."

My brothers and I couldn't argue with her. We were pretty indifferent about where Dad would spend eternity. We'd already decided it was not going to be the place with the angels and haloes.

The week after Dad died, Mom asked me to come over. Her 10-year-old cat, Woody, wasn't eating and she thought he might be sick. Walking up the stairs to her top-floor apartment in a brownstone, I noticed a cardboard box lying in the hallway, near the entrance to the door. Inside the box was Dad's urn.

The first thing my brother Liam said was, "Did you say hi to Dad in the hallway? He was lying in the same place he used to be after a long night of drinking." We both laughed really hard. We Irish have pretty dark senses of humor.

"Don't be so smart," Mom said.

"It's true," Liam said. "It's like he never left."

Woody, an adorable gray cat with huge green eyes and a Sylvester-like face, lay quietly on the floor, barely moving. His stomach was distended and he let out a feeble meow when any of us went near him.

"I don't know how long he's been like this," Mom said. "He hasn't been eating for a while, but I was so caught up with your father and all the rest of it I didn't pay him any attention."

We all looked pityingly at Woody. His nose was dry, a sign that something wasn't right. His breathing was shallow.

"I think we need to get him to the vet," I said. "We should go now."

Mom and I gently put Woody in his carrier and took him to an animal hospital in Bay Ridge. He was shaking, weakly, since he barely had any energy. The vet took him into the exam room, while Mom and I sat in the waiting room. Within a half hour, the vet called us into the room.

Woody's eyes were closed. Almost inaudibly he meowed over and over to himself, a low, plaintive sound that was difficult to ignore.

"Woody has a tumor in his abdomen that's pretty far along," the vet said. He told us our options, which were pretty grim. I stroked Woody's fur as he tried to move around, uncomfortable from the growth pressing on his insides.

"We'll need to talk it over for a few minutes," I said to the vet. He left the room, and Mom and I looked at Woody, then at each other.

"I hate to do it," she said, "but I don't think I can put up with another sickness." We were both teary.

I nodded.

We spent a few more minutes with Woody before calling the vet back in. I kissed his head, and we left. I sobbed uncontrollably, and my knees were wobbly, but I had to try to keep it together for Mom. It was the last time we saw Woody.

A week later, my brothers and I went to Mom's for dinner. On the landing outside the door still sat the cardboard box holding Dad's urn. On top of the box was the cat carrier we'd brought Woody to the vet in.

When I walked into the apartment, my brother Brian said, "Better watch it. That's two down."

"Yeah," Liam warned. "She's on a roll."

I laughed, but inside it bothered me that two reminders of death were being stored in the hallway.

"I know we didn't like the man," I said to Mom, "but he deserves a little dignity. It's disturbing to see remnants of the dead hanging out with the recycling." It was odd, having this change of heart, but my dislike of my father had given way to having a modicum of compassion for him as a human being. "I'm taking the urn home with me."

"Suit yourself," Mom said. "I don't know what else to do with him. I was thinking of taking his ashes and throwing them off the 69th Street pier into the ocean."

My brothers doubled over in laughter. "What's so funny?" I said.

"Don't you know?" Liam said. "Dad hated water."

"Yeah," Brian said. "He never took a shower because he was afraid of water."

"What?" I said. This was news to me.

"It's true," Mom said. "He used to take a sponge bath every day."

We took Dad's urn home and put it on the front windowsill. In the winter we dressed him up with hats and scarves so he wouldn't catch cold. When we moved into our new place, he made an excellent doorstop. Now he sits among the other pottery on our mezzanine.

We have a pretty good relationship now.

If I could get another chance, another walk, another dance with him
I'd play a song that would never, ever end
How I'd love, love, love
To dance with my father again

The other night at Jenn and Steve's we were talking about the orphans of the Asian tsunami and what an opportunity it would be to adopt a child in need. "I think you guys would make amazing parents," Jenn said. "I think more gay men should adopt. You guys have so much to offer. You're smart and patient and have a lot of interests, and any kid would be lucky to have you as parents."

Luis and I looked at each other, neither knowing what to say. Luis has wanted kids for several years, and I think he'd make a kickass dad. I've never thought of myself as being a father, for a number of reasons. Until recently, I had no experience with gay fathers. But more than that, I never considered fatherhood because my own dad was largely absent. And I think I'm too selfish to devote my attention to someone other than a partner.

Jenn is not the first person to tell me I'd make a good parent. It's flattering. So much to consider. I still need to convince myself.