My father passed away on Friday. He was
sixty-four.
Everyone I speak to tells me that
sixty-four is too young, that he should have had a lot of life left. When I
hear this I nod or say “I know,” but the truth of it is hearing this doesn’t
make me feel any better. It only makes me feel worse. I think people say it
because they don’t know what else to say. And maybe even because it makes them
think of their own mortality.
The day he died was exactly one week to
the day since we’d received an official diagnosis. Twenty-four days after being
admitted into the hospital that he would never leave alive. Acute B Cell Lymphoma
of the brain. Treatable, we were told, but ultimately only a short term
solution. That was provided the initial induction of chemicals into his body
didn’t kill him.
We declined the treatment on his behalf
and prepared for life without him.
When I was a kid, like most other boys
my age both well before and long after me, I wanted to be a professional
baseball player. As I got older, that dream lost a bit of its luster. The wants
and desires of what I planned for my future-self changed all the time, most notably
in that I no longer looked down the road and thought about what I wanted to be
but instead referred to it as what I want to do. There was one exception: I
wanted to be a great dad.
To know me is to know my story, of how
my parents divorced when I was four. Of how my mom remarried and of how we moved
to Texas when I was eight. In the time between the divorce and the move I saw
my dad every-other-weekend. While I loved my mom dearly, leaving my dad on
those Sunday afternoons was gut-wrenching. Our next weekend together always
felt like it was years away rather than only two weeks. I remember sitting in
church, watching the clock, wishing it would slow down. Weird, I know, because
most kids in church do the exact opposite. But not me. Not on those two-day
weekends with my dad. I knew that once church was over, it was only a matter of
hours before our time together would be up. I think maybe that’s why, even to
this day, I look at the clock on Sunday afternoons like it’s ticking down to a
death sentence. I can’t really enjoy the day because I’m too busy watching it
slip away, aware that I can’t hit the rewind button and start the weekend all
over again.
Once we moved to Texas, every-other-weekend
turned into holidays, spring break, and summers. This meant I got to spend
larger chunks of time with my dad, but also that the time between our visits
was also greater. It was almost win-lose.
And then he moved to Michigan. Our
chunks of time together decreased once more as we only saw each other during
Christmas and summer.
I could share the many memories I have
of him during that time, but there are too many to tell. I will say that one of
our last times together when I was a teenager we had a big fight. I told him
that I hated Detroit, that I hated visiting him in Detroit, and that I hated
him. What I really hated was that I couldn’t have more of him in my life, but I
didn’t know how to say that. So I lashed out.
What I had learned in the time between
my parents’ divorce and that day, however, was that I couldn’t wait to be a
dad. I couldn’t wait to have children of my own, kids to play catch with and
cards with and to ride on roller coasters with. I wanted to be him but on a
regular, full-time basis.
Over time I’ve created this list. It’s a
top-ten list called “Who I’d Want to Be My Dad If My Dad Weren’t My Dad.” Yes,
this is an actual list. My list has both real people and fictional characters from
television or movies and looks like this:
10.
Tony Micelli (from Who’s the Boss)
9. Cliff Huxtable (from The Cosby
Show)
8. Jason Seaver (from Growing Pains)
7. Billy Crystal
6. Superman
5. Tom Selleck
4. Tom Hanks
3. Paul Reiser
I suppose the
order of this list, from numbers three to ten, could be moved around at any
point in time. Some, like Paul Reiser, I have read their books. These are men I’ve
found who have, in some way or another, shaped who it is I have become as a
dad. For my kids, I want to be more than just the guy who provides for them
financially. I want to meddle in their lives, for them to come to me for advice.
For them to listen to my advice even when they didn’t ask for it (this happens
a lot, actually). I want to make them laugh. I want to be their hero.
Number Two on
the list is my father-in-law. He might just be the most stable influence I’ve ever
had in my life. He listens. He supports. He’s always there to lend a helping hand.
He’s who I look at and try to model myself after on days when I just can’t seem
to get things right. He’s someone I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger-self
to appreciate more.
I can’t really
say why I created this list. I guess it was because I never really got to spend
that much time with my dad and in many ways was a part-time son. That’s not to
say, though, that he didn’t love me full-time. I have no doubt of this. I know
that our time away from each other tore him apart. I remember hearing stories
of how he used to sob every time he watched my sister and I leave him. I
imagine that he probably looked at that same clock in church on Sunday mornings
and wished it would slow down, too.
My dad was always
telling me in recent years that he didn’t know how I did it: work, a family, undergrad school and then grad school. He always took time to tell me how proud he was of me. We hear
this from our parents, but I don’t think it really sets in. At least it’s that
way for me sometimes. But then I hear from other family members or one of his friends or acquaintances,
as I have over the last three months, and they say of how proud he was of me –
of how he always talked about me and the things I was doing in my life and of
the job I was doing as a father. Life and circumstances might have shaped who
my dad got to be in the parenting department, forcing him to be a part-time
father. But I know, without any doubts, when it comes to his kids and grand-kids,
Dad was a full-time fan.
The last three
months were hard. I worried every day that what I was doing for him wasn’t
enough, especially after he’d moved in with us. Our worlds changed as they
collided together through sickness and pain, but he and I made the best of it.
I found strength in places I didn’t know existed, like the memory of a t-shirt
he had made for me when I was a kid that he had printed that read “Samson” on it that referenced
both the man in The Bible and the fact that his name was Sam and I was his son.
He delighted in silly things like that. Always.
Dad and I might
not have had a lot of time together when I was growing up, which may be why he
saved the best lesson for last. To know what it means to truly be a great dad,
I first had to become the son he needed me to be. I had to set aside my wants
and needs and desires. Become less selfish and more selfless. Learn to be more patient. To walk with him
down a road neither of us was ready to walk down but found ourselves being
forced to. We were making up for lost time.
One of our last
conversations wasn’t really much of a conversation at all. In the last few weeks
while my dad was in the hospital he wasn’t very responsive. He couldn’t
communicate much. But one day he woke up, and after struggling to formulate the
words asked, “Why am I here?” I stood beside his bed and held his hand as I explained
that he was in the hospital because something was wrong with him, more than
just the misdiagnosis he’d been given back in Tulsa that he’d suffered a
stroke. “You’re in good hands,” I told him. “You’re in good hands with the doctors
and nurses here as they really care about you and want to find out what’s
happening to your body. You’re in good hands with God.” He started motioning to
me, which is something he did a lot when he couldn’t speak. At first I didn’t
understand what he wanted, so his movement became more and more pronounced as
he kept hitting my chest. “Me?” I finally asked. He nodded his head. “You’re in
good hands with me?” He nodded again and went back to sleep.
My dad is number
one on my list. Of all the people in the world that could be my dad if he weren’t
my dad, I’d still want it to be him. From the first day to the last. It’s a
place that only he will ever hold. He did the best he could as a father with
the time he was given. His love was never-ending. His support never failing.
I’ll miss him
every day, but I won’t have to look very far to see him. I’ll see him every
time I look into the mirror. Every time I look at my kids. Every time I say
something that I find funnier than anyone else does. Every time I tell a story
for the seventeenth time. Every time I watch a New York Yankees game. Every
time I find myself in need of courage and unsure of where draw it from.
Thank you, Dad,
for reminding me of who I was created to be.