In honor of Father's Day, which is in a couple of weeks-- I thought I would write a little bit about My Dad. I still call him Daddy, even though I'm 41 years old, and I'm pretty sure he still likes that.
There's something about Fathers and Daughters... My brothers and I have discussed this lately, as one of my younger brothers now has two daughters, one headed for high school, and now a little one-- a preschool age girl. Both of those beauties have my brother wrapped up in a knot. It's adorable and amazing all at once, seeing my brother just melt when they are near, or he can hear them, or he talks about them.
My older brother just got married and as an bonus wedding gift, was able to receive four amazing kids in the deal. I have never seen him so happy. Two are boys, two are girls, and once again, these girls have him wrapped up in knots, he loves them so much. He shows such genuine tender concern for his wife, and his girls. It's a true wonder to see your brothers go from being "THE BROTHERS/UNCLES" as they were for so many years, to these tender hearted fathers.
Don't misunderstand, Mothers and Sons have the same type of thing going on. I don't know how God set that whole thing up, but I do know that there's something about raising your opposite, if you know what I mean. It brings out an entirely new level of patience and compassion that you never knew you had.
My Dad is an interesting person. He has charisma, genius level intellect, wit, a crazy sense of humor, and is generally jovial to be around. When I'm talking to My Dad, which is often, as in every couple of days, we always find something to have a good laugh, or ten, over.
Some of my favorite memories as a kid involve hanging out at the church on Saturday all day, working on the latest church musical. My Dad has a great natural musical ability-- from singing (which he is great at), to playing guitar, to basically being able to pick up most instruments and figure them out before too long. So, he was always the male lead in whatever the show was. I loved watching My Dad up on stage, doing his music thang.
I spent the majority of my hours in jr. high, high school, college, and then adult life, at one music rehearsal or another. I think those times feel so wonderful and comfortable to me, because they remind me of the joy I felt as a child with my dad.
These early experiences, seeing my Dad as the star of the show (at least in my eyes), laughing with all the folks in rehearsal, working hard when he had to-- I got to know him as more than the Dad who worked lots of hours, travelled quite a bit for work (I remember so often saying, My Dad is in Alaska), I found this very funny, witty guy who could laugh and enjoy anyone, just anyone. And everyone who encountered him went away with a laugh.
My Dad's early life was not easy. As in NOT EASY. When he was a little boy, young elementary school, tee ball age, he developed a freak illness-- Tuberculosis in his Bone. If you think about tuberculosis, you think about coughing up blood, having your lungs get all messed up, right? So, to discover the tuberculosis bacteria in his leg-- his knee in particular, well that was just a freak thing.
He developed serious pain in his right leg. What a horrible experience for a little boy! He was used to riding his bike, running, jumping, playing ball-- all the normal things boys do. When the pain became serious, my grandparents took him to a number of doctors to try to find a way to relieve this pain and discover what was causing it.
As this was the early 1940's and technology wasn't the greatest, the first plan of action was to simply saw his leg off above his knee. That's right, just saw it off. Well, of course, my grandparents didn't go for this plan. They were determined to find a way to not create a lifelong disability for their boy. Finally, they found a doctor who seemed to understand the issue, and was willing to try a new, experiemental procedure, which would allow my dad to keep his leg. They would surgically go into his bone, remove the diseased tissue, which included his full right knee cap, then fuse the bones that were left over together. So, for most of my dad's life, he has functioned without a right kneecap.
To me, it's just normal dad, walking around with one "stiff leg". It has never been a big deal, because he never made it one. It's just Daddy, just how he walks. It wasn't until I was in high school, that a friend asked, "Hey, is your dad HANDICAPPED?" Um, wow. I had to think about it, honestly. Dad, handicapped? I don't think so. He's just DAD. But, then I thought, oh the whole leg deal, well okay, I guess I could see it from an outsider's point of view... I remember after that question actually asking my dad if he was handicapped. Again, he kind of had to think about it for a minute... Hmmm, am I HANDICAPPED? I don't think so. But, yes, he could see it from those on the outside looking in.
Isn't that funny? It wasn't until my teens, and only when someone actually asked me, that it occurred to me that my dad may not be like other dads.
My dad did all the things the doctors had told his parents as a kid that he would
ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY NEVER BE ABLE TO DO AGAIN. Things such as riding a bike. It's no easy feat, I'm sure, to ride a bike with one leg that can't pedal all the way around. But, it didn't stop my dad. I remember him riding a bike when we were kids-- he'd pedal almost all the way around with one leg, kind of catch it at the bottom with his other leg, then grab on with the left leg again.
He played softball in the church league. You'd think someone with a constant limp would not be running the bases, but I distinctly remembering him playing in a game, smashing the ball with the bat, and then running/limping into first base, laughing all the way.
Of course, they said he'd never be able to WALK. Well, as you can imagine, he rebelled against that idea as well. He has walked, as much as everyone else, hiking a long camping trail with me a few years ago, and taking a four mile walk around a lake one summer. He was no different than anyone else's dad to me. He did "normal stuff". The idea of Handicapped was foreign to my thinking regarding my dad. He made a lifetime out of not having that label put on him. Not ever.
When I got into junior high, he took a serious fall at work. He worked in a building with a lovely, marble staircase. Instead of taking the elevator, he always took the the stairs like everyone else. But, one day, his feet caught under him, and he fell down, smashing his back on the way. This began many years of serious disability for my dad.
After all those years of doing all the things that other people did, he started a series of back surgeries, kind of patch up jobs, fixing all sorts of issues that had developed before the fall, and were much worse after. My dad received a medical retirement when I was all of 12 years old. It wasn't a fun time for him-- he was in constant, chronic, debilitating pain, which left him disabled much of the time. But, he still did his best not to miss little league games, my singing performances, choir concerts, and various miscellaneous things that five kids are involved in. He coached my little brother's basketball team. He taught seminary when my brother and I were in high school.
As I look back, much of that time, he must have been nearly paralyzed with pain. I don't know how he got up and did anything back then. In fact, I'm not sure why he didn't just lay down and die, as I think back. But, through it all, my dad was still my dad. He still was up for a laugh, any chance he got, loved to chat, so I had a great time just talking with him when I was in junior high and high school. I was blessed to have him home to talk to, and get to know in a way that most kids don't know their dads.
One night, a Pink Panther-Peter Sellers movie came on. I had never watched one, and my dad just went nuts! "We have to watch this! It's so hilarious!", he said. So, he and I stayed up late that night laughing ourselves sick watching that movie. It's one of my all time favorite memories. I can remember my dad, tears rolling down his cheeks trying to catch his breath, at every crazy move that Peter Sellers did.
I had children years before any of my brothers were even married. My dad quickly became "Papa", a nickname given to him by BabyGirl Jessica. He has loved being Jessie, Alex and Chris's Papa. I think the other grandkids call him Grandpa, but not my kids. The nickname definitely stuck.
Over the years, as he has gotten older, which of course he and I will always deny-- (Who's getting older??? I'm not getting older!!!!) he has become more and more debilitated by an endless list of physical ailments. It's pretty much constant for him. The days that he's healthy and feels good enough to do stuff are definitely days he lives as fully as he can, because they are the exception, not the rule.
A few years ago, before my divorce, we did a final family fling to Disneyland. My kids love Disneyland. My dad and his wife Susan were able to travel along with us for that few days. As a kid, we didn't take vacations-- we went to visit family, mostly in Utah, but we never went to theme parks. My did just wasn't able to physically do it. I don't think we felt ripped off over it, it's just how things were. But, at the ripe old age of 65, my dad finally got to experience Disneyland!
He sat at the foot of every ride, taking tons of pictures, smiling ear to ear watching the kids ride Dumbo, or whatever else they did. I tried a bunch of times to get my dad on a ride with us, but he just wanted to watch the kids do their thing. That for him, was the greatest gift of all. We did get him on a few rides though, and he experienced it just as a kid does the first time-- with wonder at what Walt Disney created-- a place where childhood is celebrated, and you don't have to be a grown up anywhere when you are on that property. Seriously, the commercials don't lie!
We were rushing our last night for seats to see Fantasmic, and my dad and I got separated. As we rounded a corner near the show seats, I saw this massive sobrero, with Mickey Ears, of course-- and I'm just laughing my head off looking at this complete idiot in the distance who would lower himself to a Mickey Mouse SOMBRERO!!, (Come on, Disney! Have you no shame???), but as I got closer, trying to pass this clown with no pride, I discover that, Yes, in fact, it is my Dad wearing this ridiculous sombrero, laying on the horn of his electric wheelchair to get good seats to the show.
It was, as we kids call it, a CLASSIC DAD MOMENT. Around us, he never could pull off being a serious adult very well. Every so often he did something so ridiculous, with no fear of disclosing that he was actually just a very large kid, that it caught us by surprise, and became one in a million of our favorite memories of him.
He was seated in VIP seating when he pulled up in the wheelchair. They brought him and his wife clear to the very front row. The show was magic, as everything at Disneyland is (my personal opinion), and when we connected again, his eyes were all lit up, sparkling, and he was laughing at how amazing it all had been. I truly saw that child in him, that had never been able to visit Disneyland as a kid, or even take his own kids there. This experience to him was incredible, and my memories of his wonder are priceless.
Now that I'm a quasi-adult with children of my own, I look back at my parents with much different eyes... I see things how they must have seen them, trying to give their children the absolute best they could. I can't imagine what their struggles were, having five kids, a disabled dad, and a very hard working Mom trying to hold it all together. They did the same things you and I do now, we work hard, do all we can for our kids, and never complain a second about it, because they are our kids... The wonderful ones that grew under and in our hearts.
Through all the years of my dad's disabled condition he has never, ever complained in my presence. I will see him when we get together for holidays, or birthdays, and I will be able to tell that he is struggling to simply walk around, get up stairs, try to keep up with what's going on... It worries my heart for him. But, knowing my Dad as I do, there's nothing that would please him LESS, than to know that I worry about him, for even a minute.
He keeps his pains and struggles to himself. When he is with us, he smiles, laughs, genuinely enjoys seeing our children growing up. He is 69 years old. For the physical ailments he suffers, as well as his family tree of not making it to 60, every day he is here is a gift. His baby brother died suddenly at the age of 50. Most of his uncles didn't make it much longer than that. Truly, I adore him, and feel extremely blessed to be his daughter.
In his aging and more disabled self, he is still absolutely my Daddy. I still love to talk to him-- he makes me laugh, we discuss things that interest us, our conversations turn tender, as I express my deep love for him. He always answers the phone with a voice that is enthusiastic and surprised that I'm calling, although I do often.
I have spoken to him a few times, in our tender moments, about my extreme grief even imagining the day he won't be here to talk to and laugh with. I simply don't know how I will live the rest of my life without my dad around. I know it's a day that will come far too soon, and I will have to get up the next day and the next, not being able to call him when I want to, not being able to laugh and share him with my children, as I share my children with him.
He has said to me, in conversations past, how he wishes he would have simply ACCOMPLISHED SOMETHING. He feels his time here on this earth has been wasted because of these ailments he has suffered with every day of his life. It's the only time I hear him complain. He wishes that despite the ailments, never wishing them away as I surely would, that he could have DONE MORE, BEEN MORE, EXPERIENCED MORE, PROVIDED MORE FOR US.
What he doesn't seem to understand though is this-- who he is, what he has achieved as a father and grandfather, the man he has become as he has faced the refiner's fire time and time and time again, is so much MORE THAN ENOUGH. I weep as I write these words, because he is such a tender, blessed part of my life. He didn't have to be a millionaire, or famous attorney like he wishes he had been, to be someone remarkable. To have existed, and faced each and every challenge with hope, with a smile for his kids ensuring us that it's "nothing, don't worry about it", he has set such an amazing example and created his very own legacy that will live on, long after he has.
I carry him with me in my heart, every day, when I am facing the pains in my life, knowing that for my children, and others around me, I will not complain. I will smile, joke, get through it. When I am alone at night, when no one can hear or see me, then I cry. Then I feel sorry for myself. And maybe that's what he does too. But, he has made it his business to make sure worrying about him is not our business.
I admire this man, who I believe wills himself to stay alive each day, because he's not ready to give up this life full of his children and grandchildren. Even if that life means that his body hurts, in a horrible way, all of the time, 24/7. I imagine if I were him, I'd be ready to cut my cords with this world and move onto the next, where the pain would be gone, where he can run with the wind, embrace the loved ones he has lost. But, he's obviously not ready for that heavenly reunion, as wonderful as it must sound to him, because he has his earthly reunions to look forward to, with the kids, the many grandkids.
Each time a new child comes into our family, he is grateful he was alive to see the day... As each of us married, he was thrilled to be there to celebrate. I know one of the most wonderful experiences of his life was to see Dave's wedding last January, knowing how long his oldest son had waited to be the groom, not the groomsman for one of his little brother's weddings. The joy of his son was a gift for my dad, that made his physical pain of all the days before absolutely worth it. It was probably worth it times ten in his eyes.
Two new babies will be welcomed to our family by the fall-- I'm sure he's planning on being here to hold them, marvel at them, express how quickly time has flown, how he used to be the daddy holding the new baby, not the grandpa watching his sons and daughter take on that job, when we are obviously too young and inexperienced to do this! Actually, we all agree with him. In his eyes, as well as our own, we are still just little kids, riding roller skates on the patio, taking our bikes to the dirt path with the good jumps, getting ready for the next baseball/soccer/basketball game, asking for money to walk to 7-11 for Slurpees.
This man, who I am blessed to call Daddy is one of the few constants in my world, always loyal, kind and loving. No matter how old I get, he will always be my Dad, protective of me to a fault, always an example of being long-suffering, patient, and full of optimism for the future, regardless of what the past has held.
I will always feel cherished in his eyes, and know that no matter what,
no matter what, he is always proud of me. He has told me, and shown me this, and taught me that I never had to do anything to deserve it. He has freely given his love to me simply because I'm his daughter, that I exist. It was never something I was required to earn. It's a gift a father gives his child, without a thought.
His example has helped me understand how our Heavenly Father loves us unconditionally, and we are so beloved to him, no matter what.
Daddy, I love you. I love you a million lifetimes worth of a daughter's love and adoration. I'm grateful for each day, each moment I share with you, knowing that each one is a gift that I must hold in my heart and cherish. And truly, I do.
** As a p.s.-- I meant to give this to my Dad on Father's Day-- just a couple short months ago-- now it will serve as my personal tribute to him as we lost him this morning, August 7, 2008. He died quickly, and I'm sure his reunions in heaven were incredible! He and I laughed just a few days ago-- he was on crutches and I said, "Dad? What would you do if you woke up tomorrow morning and were completely HEALTHY?" And he laughed and thought for a moment, then said, "I don't know. I guess I'd be CONFUSED." Then, he laughed some more, gave me a hug, and sent me off, not wanting me to worry a moment. So, I guess as he went from one dimension of life to the next, he may have had a brief, amazed moment of CONFUSION! Wow! This works, and this works! This doesn't hurt and this doesn't hurt! I FEEL GREAT! I certainly hope so. But, this world has lost a true original-- as his daughter, I have lost my Daddy-- for a short time, in the scheme of things... But, I know he wouldn't want tears, or worry. He'd just want laughter and joy-- as irreverent as you could be as opposed to the reverence some show their dead.
Oh, Daddy-- you will be MISSED. And then MISSED SOME MORE.
All of my love, Missy Donut, Lolo, your daughter, Laurie.
