Father's Day

Thank you for teaching me that there are very few situations in life that can't be improved with a dash of humor. In nearly every photograph of you I have and in most memories of you in my mind, you're either smiling or laughing. Even after you got cancer, as it progressed and you were in great pain, you still managed to find a way to joke and laugh. You inspired patients, nurses, and doctors alike with your courage. I know, because some of the medical staff who cared for you toward the end came to your funeral. Every one of them told me how you made them laugh and how you inspired both staff and patients. Perhaps the best testimony to the effect you had on them is that they attended at all; we rarely go to patients' funerals. I could probably count on my fingers the number I've been to over the years. It's only the patients that have made a real impact on us that we attend.

At your wake, the night before the funeral, everyone was somber, like people usually are at an event like that. But as your friends and family came together and shared little anecdotes about you or funny things you had said or done, before long there was more laughter than I believe I've ever heard at a wake. A few sourpusses clearly didn't approve of such frivolity, judging by the looks on their faces, but I decided they didn't know you very well. If they had, they would have known you would have wanted it just like that.

I've tried to apply your lessons to my own patients. You don't know how often I have a patient who is so nervous about an upcoming test or surgery that they look like they're going to pop like a balloon. I'll often try to find some subtle way, as you so often did with others, to get them to laugh or at least smile, while not giving up an ounce of professionalism. It doesn't always work, but I succeed more often than I fail. When I succeed and the patient smiles or laughs, his or her entire outlook almost always improves.

Thank you for loving Mom, always treating her with respect, and even for loving her more than you loved your children. My brother and I never doubted for a minute, then or now, that you loved us, but we also knew it was Mom first, us second. You always supported Mom's position over ours in an argument, even when we were convinced she was wrong. Looking back now, Mom was right far more often than she was wrong, and it's probably a good thing that she got her way instead of ours. It always gave her great confidence, though, knowing that you had her back, no matter what. Even on those rare occasions when she was wrong, you never undermined her authority by correcting or disagreeing with her in front of us. It also made asking for permission to do this or that much easier for us kids: if Mom said no, there was no use appealing our plea to you, because we knew your answer would only reinforce hers.

I never heard you address or refer to Mom by a derogatory name or by anything other than her given name, a pet name, or a term of the greatest respect, regardless of whether she was present or not, nor have I ever met a friend or acquaintance of yours who ever heard you do so, either. You always introduced her as "My wife", almost always with a flattering adjective in between, such as, "My beautiful wife", or, "My beloved wife", or, "The love of my life". I don't know if you realize how valued and proud it made Mom feel to know that you never referred to her as "the old ball and chain", "nag", or anything else.

I know, though, how she felt because Brian is just like you were in that regard: even when we disagree or are angry with one another, in more than ten years together I have never once heard him call me a bad name or refer to me unfavorably to friends. It makes me feel like a million bucks and more valued than gold, silver, or diamonds to know that I am as precious to Brian as the day we fell in love. Mom felt the same value from you, and because you demonstrated it so beautifully, it taught both my brother and me that, no longer how married, it never becomes acceptable to treat one's spouse with disrespect.

Thank you for teaching me to believe in myself by believing in me. I sometimes got discouraged, like all kids do. "I can't do this!", or, "I can't learn this!", or "I'm not good enough!" were phrases I used, but you knew what I could do more than I did myself, and you encouraged me to reach my full potential. You never asked me to do what you knew I truly couldn't do. You knew what I could do, you believed in me, and in doing so, you taught me to believe in myself.

As an adult, I have gone out on some thin limbs before in this situation or that, some that have scared the hell out of me. Not all have been successes, but many of them have been. It was the self-confidence that you instilled in me that enabled me to take those steps. I thank you that you gave me the self-confidence that it was okay to fail, but then get right back on the horse that threw me. I am in places today, both professionally and personally, very good places, that I wouldn't be if not for the will to try.

Thank you for being so approachable that I felt there was no problem so big I couldn't bring it to you. Even if I had committed some awful crime, I feel I could have come to you. You would have been disappointed in me and told me so, and you would have made me do the right thing even if you had to drive me to the police station and stand there while I confessed. But even at that, you would have stood right there beside me, no doubt holding my hand, while I confessed, and I knew there was nothing I could do that was so bad that you'd stop loving me or no longer accept me as your daughter.

Thank you for being such a model of a husband and a father that you didn't have to worry about me dating the wrong guy. I compared them to you, and when they didn't measure up, I ditched them myself. Remember Bill, the guy I dated in high school? He was handsome, funny, popular, and a football player. I was convinced he was The One. But one day we had an argument and he hit me. I told you I got hit in the face with a ball during gym class; I lied to you because I didn't want you to go to jail and Bill to go to the morgue. I knew you had never hit Mom, not one single time, ever, and that's all I needed to know to know he didn't measure up.

Thank you for respecting my beliefs, or lack thereof. Growing up, our family was in church every Sunday, and what's more, you were the same man during the week you were on Sunday morning. But when I grew up, I lacked your faith. I was at church for your funeral; before that, I can't tell you the last time. Watching me turn my back on your beliefs must have broken your heart. I well remember the day you talked to me to try to gently persuade me otherwise. Once. When I still declined, you respected that and didn't pester me. Thank you. I'm truly sorry if I broke your heart. Perhaps one day I'll feel differently; right now, it's too hard for me to take things simply on faith alone. Thank you for accepting that.

Thank you for not pretending that sex doesn't exist. I know that you wanted me to protect my reputation – which I did – by not having sex, and especially by not sleeping with anything that moved. But at the same time, you didn't stick your head in the sand and pretend that I, like every other teenager, was not one big walking bag of hormones, and think that I always would say no. Though I didn't know it at the time, I know now that it was you and your wise guidance that were the reason Mom got me on the pill as soon as I was old enough to have menses, and that the "just in case" condom that was in my wallet was there because you wanted it to be there. I was a good girl, like you wanted me to be, though I did stray on occasion. Thanks for being mature enough to understand that.

Thank you for your wisdom, your love, your patience, and understanding in so many areas. I confess that, growing up, I never really understood why Mom married a man more than twelve years older than herself. Then I met Brian, who is nearly nine years older and I see the wisdom that comes with age. Now I understand perfectly. I'm very happy, Dad; Brian and Matt make me happier than any person on this planet has any right to be. Thanks for teaching me the patience to hold out for the best.

It's 9:30 in the evening as I write this. In a mere two and a half hours, another Father's Day will be in the books, and in the morning we'll start making plans for Fourth of July cookouts, fireworks, and complaining it's too hot and too humid as we start another work week. Here I am, sitting on the sofa in my living room, putting the finishing touches on this essay that perhaps someone will someday be bored enough to read. Even if no one ever reads it, I'm glad I wrote it because it feels good to put all of this down in writing. If you're reading this, thanks for taking the time to listen to the disjointed ramblings of someone who is old enough that she really should know better. I hope something I've written herein has given you something to think about, entertained you, or at the very least not bored you too much. I hope I haven't made you too sad, either. It's not a cheery story, I'm afraid.

I'm cheered somewhat by Brian and Matt as I write this. Those of you who have read Brian's story, "Experimental Anal", know something of his delightful sense of humor, and Matt is the same way. The joy and spontaneity of life those two exude make it impossible to remain cheerless for too long in their presence. Either one of them is an infectious delight to be around. Put the two of them together and you have critical mass. I'll never completely understand how those two can do what they've done and see what they've seen and yet can be so full of life and joy, but just maybe you truly have to go toe to toe with the devil as those two have, time and again, to learn the secret of fully appreciating life. Dad discovered the secret on the war-torn battlefields of Korea in the early 1950's. Brian and Matt discovered it somewhere amongst burning buildings, hazardous chemicals, and car accidents, doing and seeing things that I don't even want to think about. Moreover, Brian found his by reaching into the dragon's mouth, almost losing his life in the process. A lesser man would have lost it, or would not have found the strength and courage to fight back to his feet. Then again, lesser men don't make history, or conquer new frontiers in medicine, science, computers, and so much more.

The "frontier" the boys conquered today was spending the day inventing and devising rules for a new sport they tell me combines the finer points of "bicycling, fencing, and jousting". God help us all. One thing they left out of that was beer, because I'm certain the tinkering they did in the garage as I wrote this today involved massive amounts of beer. As I sit here, looking out the patio doors to the backyard beyond, I see they are testing their new sport. Just now they are taking turns riding at each other as fast as they can, while one pokes at the other with a long pole and the other defends himself with a wooden "sword". You would think two guys in their 40's would know better. Guess not. I'm ready, though: I have a well-stocked medical bag/basic life support kit in our home for most things that can arise. When they wheeled their contraption into the backyard, I simply went to the closet, got the bag, and laid it here on the sofa beside me. Just in case.

Wherever Dad is this evening, I know he's looking down on Brian and Matt right now, and in all likelihood, laughing his butt off. He loved the boys, almost as much as I do. I hope he puts in a good word on their behalf; Matt continues to serve the men and women of our city, and I hope Dad will watch over him to keep him safe in ways that none of us will ever know. I know Dad's proud of both of them, just as much as if they were his own sons. Matt saves lives and property from destruction. Who could not be proud of that? And even though Brian's no longer in the life saving business, I know he's proud of him, too. More than anything, though, I know he's proud – just as I am – of how much they both love "his little girl" and of how happy they make her. He may not be so proud or happy with our relationship arrangement as, in some ways, it's like I'm married to the both of them, but somehow I think he understands.

It's not easy to close an essay like this. How do you summarize and distill into a single paragraph eighty-three years of a remarkable life, one filled with joy, wisdom, and above all, love? Perhaps the best way is to not summarize it at all, to simply leave it open-ended like blank pages of a book waiting to be written upon. Perhaps the best way is to simply dive headfirst into whatever wellspring of joy that presents itself. I think it's what Dad would want. I know it's what Dad would do.

Out of the way, boys; it's my turn on the bike...