Father's Day

Let me start with a word of warning: this story probably is not what you think it is. It's sappy, there's no sex, and if you read the title and are expecting some bodice-ripping tale of incestuous lust between a woman and her father, well, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I wrote this piece on Father's Day because there were some things on my heart that I just wanted to get down in writing strictly for my own sake. When I shared it with my husband, Brian, he was moved emotionally to a degree that he insisted I post it on here. After changing names and a minor detail or two in the interest of anonymity, this is the result. I hope you enjoy it.

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June 16, 2013. Father's Day. On this day as phone lines light up across the nation and ugly neckties that would otherwise never be bought find new homes, I sit here on my living room sofa in a deep melancholy, for this is the first Father's Day in my thirty-four years of life that I am not with my father. Neither can I pick up the phone to call him and hear the rich and loving dulcet tones of his voice. This year, you see, is the first Father's Day since my father passed away.

I wish the Internet were a safe enough place that I could tell you his name, but it would be meaningless to you. It wasn't a famous name. My father was never a movie or television star, never saved anyone's life by pulling them from certain death, and as far as I know, the only time his name ever appeared in the newspaper was when his obituary was published. But to me and my brother, it will always be a special name, for what he did was to make two children, teach them by countless examples how to live and how to love, and lovingly mold them into the adults we are today. And that, dear reader, carries a far higher greatness than anything else ever could in the hearts of those who loved him and were loved by him.

Not everyone has good memories of their father. Some remember, if at all, a loveless, mean, perhaps even violent man. Others remember an uncaring male figure who could have cared less about their successes or failures. Others have no memories at all, having never known the man, his having disappeared long before they were born or before they were old enough to remember him. If any of those descriptions apply to you, I am truly sorry, and I know something of your pain, for it somewhat describes Brian's relationship to his own father. Born to a somewhat well-to-do family, Brian's parents strenuously objected to – "were scandalized by", is how Brian describes it – his decision to become a firefighter. Worse, they did the unthinkable: six years into his firefighting career, when he suffered the gruesome injuries that ended that career, and his buddies called his parents to come "before it's too late", they came alright. They came to stand over the bed of their grievously wounded only son, cluck their tongues, and tell him, in effect, "we told you so."

As I sit here with my computer in my lap and look out the patio doors at Brian and our best friend, Matt, playing like children in the backyard, I think of Father's Day weekend last year. Given Brian's strained relationship with his own father, in many ways Brian and Dad "adopted" one another many years before, so naturally Brian joined me as we flew the thousand or so miles to the town where I was born and raised. It was when we walked into the little apartment that Mom and Dad shared in their golden years that we got our hearts broken: Dad, who had valiantly and aggressively fought cancer for several years had, in the last few months, taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Always a vigorous and healthy-looking man of over six feet tall, Dad now looked like he weighed less than a hundred pounds, was unable to walk or even stand, and worst of all, was now blind.

"Dad," I wept as I carefully pressed his frail hand between mine, "why didn't you or Mom tell us?"

"Tell you what?" he laughed in the rich and loving voice that the cancer would soon silence. "It's okay, punkin'," he said confidently. "It'll all be okay." It was, word for word, what he used to tell me when I was a child, especially during the loud thunderstorms that once terrified me so. Oddly, in spite of all of my RN experience and training that told me that things were most certainly not going to be all right or "okay", I felt deeply comforted by his words.

We spent the entire weekend reminiscing and looking through photo albums. Blind as he now was, Dad remarkably refused to let it be a hindrance to him, demonstrating an almost uncanny recall of nearly each and every photo with only a few words of description. Brian learned things that, even after nearly ten years of marriage, were heretofore secrets about me, usually because they were embarrassing. I learned things that weekend as well, as Dad shared formerly untold stories about his experiences in the Korean War, and Dad insisted that Brian regale him with stories of his firefighter days. Brian's own father may not have been proud of his brave and heroic son, but Dad certainly was. His pride showed on his drawn and withered face as Brian enthralled him with tales of unspeakable courage, of both him and his buddies, and most remarkably of all, in every case Brian eschewed and rejected any label of "hero" as he told tales with such poetic descriptiveness that I could nearly feel the heat and smell the smoke.

All too soon it was Sunday afternoon. I practically begged Mom and Dad to let me stay for a few weeks to help her care for Dad, but they wouldn't hear of it. "Your patients need you, punkin'," Dad finally said in the calm but firm voice that, growing up, always meant it was the end of discussion. "Your patients need you and Brian needs you. I'll be alright."

As we said our goodbyes and prepared to leave for the airport, there was a certain finality in the air as we all seemed to sense that this was the last goodbye we were ever going to have. I said goodbye to Dad, told him I loved him, and held his hand as I told him I'd see him at Thanksgiving, knowing in my heart that I wouldn't. I closed my eyes and invited him to "read" my face with his hands one last time, hoping that I could hold back the tears a minute or two longer. I didn't want Dad to "see" me cry, knowing that all it would do is cause him to worry about me.

After he touched all over my face and was satisfied with the mental picture he had of me, he laid his hands in his lap once again. I hugged him gently but tenderly. When he hugged me back was when I finally lost it, my tears flowing freely. It was the way he hugged me, almost in desperation, afraid to let go, like a drowning swimmer clinging to a would-be rescuer. We kissed each other on the cheek, just as we'd done a thousand times before. But this time was different, as our lips lingered on each other's faces, both of us knowing it was the last time. Finally, reluctantly, we parted, and I don't know which one of us moved slower to complete that one last act of fatherly affection.

Then it was time for Brian to say goodbye. I stepped out of earshot, knowing that there may well be things the two men had to say to one another that were for their ears alone. Brian would tell me later anything he felt I needed to hear, and if there was something he felt the need to keep confidential, I was okay with that, too.

Brian sat down beside Dad and took his hand. "I'm damn proud of you, boy," Dad said, squeezing Brian's hand with a surprising strength for a man of nearly 83. "You're a good man. Take care of my daughter. You're the only man who ever loved her as much as I do. You and your friend, Matt. Make sure you tell him that."

"I will," Brian promised, unwilling to say more, not trusting himself to speak. Besides, he said, it was hard to get even those two words past the lump in his throat.

I don't know if Dad said anything more. Somehow I believe he did. Dad loved Brian like a second son, spoke often of Brian's scars and how he got them like they were Olympic gold medals, and bragged on the sort of man Brian was almost as much as he bragged about his own two kids. I don't believe Dad let him go with just a few sentences. But Dad was a private man, and a proud one, who didn't display his emotions on his sleeve for the world to see. Whatever was expressed between them, I believe Brian protected Dad's privacy by not sharing. I accept that fully, because I know that's how Dad would want it to be.

After they spoke to each other, Dad reached for Brian and they hugged. Then Dad did something he had never done in countless visits: he kissed Brian on the cheek, just the way he had kissed me minutes earlier. With his mouth pressed in close to Brian's ear, he said, "I love you, son." Brian said he loved him, too, and then, sadly, it was time to leave.

Brian rose and walked over to where I was standing, and nodded silently. With our other goodbyes already said and nothing left to say, we walked out without saying another word to anyone.

During the thirty minute drive to the airport, through check-in, security, the flight home, and the drive to our house, I don't imagine we said more than ten words to each other. The proverbial "fly on the wall" might have assumed we were angry with each other and giving each other the silent treatment. But I knew that wasn't the case. I knew it was because Brian didn't trust himself to speak, lest the emotional goodbye cause him to break down. I understood perfectly, because I felt the exact same way. Sometimes the best words you can say are no words at all, but just simply hold one another's hand.

Dad "graduated" almost four months later, on October 16, at 3:13 in the afternoon. I don't know if there's an afterlife or not; having seen a lot of deaths as an RN and held the hand of probably dozens of men and women as they died, I've seen things that can make a strong case either way. But if there is one, I believe it's higher and better than this one, which is why I say Dad graduated: he moved up.

This may sound silly, and maybe it is, but I believe on that afternoon, Dad's spirit came by to say a final goodbye to me on its way to wherever it is spirits go when they die. I was at work that day, in a patient's room, when I suddenly and briefly caught a sharp whiff of English Leather cologne, like someone wearing it had just walked past. It's not all that common nowadays; I'm not even sure they make English Leather anymore. It was only a second or two, and apparently it was for me alone, but in that brief moment I know what I smelled. It was unusual enough that I noted the time. You guessed it: 3:13.

I smiled and asked the patient if he wore English Leather. He said that he didn't, and after a couple of sniffs said that he didn't smell anything.

"Never mind. Must have been my imagination."

As a little girl, I was terrified of thunderstorms. Even a distant one, as soon as I heard the first peal of thunder, my stress level went through the roof and I literally shook in terror. But Dad always knew exactly what to do as soon as a thunderstorm made its approach known. He would immediately drop whatever it was he was doing and come to the living room, taking a seat in an old, broken down recliner that my brother and I knew simply as "Dad's chair." Then I'd come over and either climb up onto his lap or he'd pick me up and pull me into the chair. If it was the middle of the night, if the thunder was loud enough to wake me, I knew Dad was on his way to carry me to bed with him and Mom. A few times, Mom was less dressed than at other times, and in my youthful ignorance and innocence, I had no idea what my fears had interrupted.

Once I was in the chair with Dad, he'd tell me jokes or read me a story to make me laugh, or we'd watch TV together, or maybe we'd just sit there. Whatever it was we did, all I knew was I wasn't scared anymore, no matter how bad the storm got. I knew Dad wasn't going anywhere until long after the last thunderclap rolled, not until I felt safe enough to leave his cocoon of protection. The smell of his cologne was like a blanket I was wrapped up in, totally safe, no matter what.

I came home to a ringing telephone at nearly 8:00 that Wednesday evening. It was Mom, calling with the sad news of my father's passing. I didn't cry, at least not right away. I did later, of course, but not right then. I was sad for my Mom, my brother, and me, but I was happy for Dad: after months trapped in a body that no longer worked properly, with pain a constant companion, Dad's fiercely independent spirit now dependent on others for even the smallest needs, I had a sense that Dad had been set free and that I should feel happy for him, not sad. I was glad to have been given such certainty back in June that it was the last visit we'd have together that it allowed Brian and me to say our goodbyes, and I was happy that Dad was free. This wasn't a time for tears. Not yet. That was when I suddenly remembered the bizarre event of earlier in the day.

"Mom, forgive me for asking this, but what time did Dad die?"

Her tone indicated she thought it was a strange question. "3:13 this afternoon. Why?"

"Oh, no reason." I was glad we were talking on a regular, old fashioned telephone instead of a video chat through Skype or something: I doubt Mom would have understood the smile on my face just then. I promised Mom that Brian and I would be on the first flight I could get the next morning, and then we said our goodbyes and hung up.

I stood there in my living room, with my hand still on the phone, still dressed in my hospital scrubs, and closed my eyes. Brian wasn't home, which was just as well, because that was when the tears started. I still felt happy for Dad, but I wasn't crying for him. I was crying for Mom, my brother, and yes, myself: I felt sorry for myself and for all of us that we were now forced to trudge on ahead without the benefit of a sweet, kind, extraordinarily capable leader. We would miss his humor, his wisdom, his intelligence, his strength of spirit and character, and so much more. Yes, we would carry on, all of us, but we had some incredibly big shoes that none of us would ever be able to completely fill.

I remembered what happened in the patient room earlier that day. The timing, the beloved smell of a cologne he hadn't worn in years and yet one I would always associate with Dad, it was all too much to digest, let alone understand. "It's okay, punkin'," I remembered, with perfect clarity. I felt and still feel today that was the message Dad came to leave me with that afternoon, on his way to whatever lies on the other side: "It's okay, punkin'. It'll all be okay."

With my eyes closed, tears flowing down my cheeks, and still an incongruent smile on my face, I said aloud, "Thanks, Dad, for stopping by the hospital today and saying goodbye. I love you." I don't know if he heard me. Probably not, but I expressed one last time my love for him. All I know is, I felt a lot better.

I miss you, Dad. I miss you every day, but today most of all. I remember you every day, but right now I'd give anything to be able to pick up the phone and talk to you once more. But just maybe, in some way I don't and can't understand, you're physically closer to me now than we've been in a long time. As I write you this letter and think of you, I can't help but feel you're sitting here beside me, with your arm around me as you used to when I was a child and I was scared, or sick, or hurting, or sad.

There are so many things I never thanked you for when you were alive. I never meant to be ungrateful and always tried to thank you for all you gave me, but it's easy to say "thank you" for a gift like a new toy or prom dress or money when I was in college and couldn't make ends meet. Thanking someone for intangibles is harder. There are so many other things, though, that you gave me, some things that I never knew you gave me until you were gone, but they are just as real as any physical gift you ever gave me, a thousand times more durable, and priceless in value.

Thank you, Dad, telling me "no" and once made, standing firm on your decision, no matter how much I whined or how many tantrums I threw. It couldn't have been easy; you were nearly fifty when I was born. Knowing my lack of patience at thirty-four, I can only imagine how much I tried yours with my seemingly incessant whining. But you had the strength to stand firm, and because of this gift, I learned that the world doesn't revolve around me and the sun doesn't rise and set on my wants, wishes, or desires. You made me a far better person today by helping me to realize that I can't always have my way.

Thank you for having the courage to spank me when I deserved it. You taught me discipline, and as much as I hated the feel of that toy wooden paddle across my little behind, there is not a single scar or mark there today. When I think of childhood friends and classmates who fell by the wayside on the way to their dreams, sidetracked by crime, drugs, alcohol abuse, and unplanned pregnancies, leading to loveless marriages, AIDS, herpes, diseases of every sort, prison, and worse, I'm well aware that it could have been me, were it not for the discipline you instilled at the end of a little wooden paddle.

Along with that, thank you for spanking me when you said you would, instead of following up one meaningless threat of "do that again and I'll spank you!" with an equally toothless threat. You taught me confidence and certainty and trust, because I knew the limits were exactly where you said they were, and I knew the penalties were exactly what you said they'd be.

Thank you for not believing me when as a child and as a teenager I told you I hated you or said I "wish you were dead" because you wouldn't let me have my way. I never meant it, not once, and angry or not, I never should have said it. Now that you really are gone and my heart is still broken eight months later, it shames me to think that I ever said such vile words. Even though you knew I didn't mean it, if there was any way to go back and erase every time I did it, believe me, I would.

Thank you for making me drink a glass of water or juice when I wanted a soda, and making me eat an apple or some grapes instead of a cookie. You instilled in me good eating habits, even though I whined. Today, my weight, cholesterol levels, and blood pressure are the envy of women much younger than me. Remember when I used to compare your meal choices to the family who lived across the street, the ones that let their kids eat anything they wanted, whenever they wanted? When I was in for Father's Day last year, one of the people who came by to say hello was Nicole, one of my childhood friends from the neighborhood. She's a nurse now, too. Patient confidentiality rules mean she technically shouldn't have told me this, but three or four years ago, fate put one of those kids, then an adult, on her unit. He weighed over 300 pounds and was in for his fourth heart attack. Nicole would have loved to introduce herself as the girl from down the street who he used to play with, once upon a time, and ask him if he remembered her. She couldn't, though, because he never woke up.

Thanks for not letting that be me.

Along those same lines, thanks for making me turn off the TV and go out and ride my bike or walk some place that was half a mile away instead of whining until you or Mom drove me. I exercise every day now, and I feel great. It's true that I could get hit by a bus Mattorrow while jogging and "be the healthiest person in the cemetery" as the naysayers love to say. Even if that happened, God forbid, in the last moment before the bus ran me over I doubt I'd have any regrets.

Thank you for teaching me that scary things are rarely as bad as we think they're going to be, and many of the things we worry about never come to pass in the first place. It's taken me more than thirty years to learn the truth of that, and I still fall into that trap far too often. I'm getting better at it. (I'm sorry, Dad, but this is one I definitely couldn't thank you for while you were alive - I would have been too afraid you'd check with Brian and find out the truth about how much I still struggle with it.)