7 Years

And so.... I am coming up to almost 7 years since my father passed away... and where am I?

I push ahead at times boldly, confidently.  Then fall back unsure, unsettled, afraid of failure.  Was this where I was before my father died?  Truthfully.... no.

I am deeper now... scarred.  Again... my emotions are close to the surface.  Sometimes that is good... sometimes it is scares me.

One characteristic has emerged that I didn't have before though.  I am driven now.  I was cautious.... trending to security rather than daring.

I am driven and more daring.

That is where I am now... almost 7 years later.

Feeling myself again

Been a long time since I have posted...
For so long, my emotions and sense of loss, and no direction continued.

Yet.... it seems... and I'm not really sure why... but I feel... normal again... that feeling of misdirection is gone.  I feel like I am me again.  I know it is is kind of a lame way to put it, but it is true...

The moral compass I lost, has been found.

The hole that my father's death has left remains, I won't even pretend to think different.  But it is a different feeling.  Almost a reassurance.  As if he is with me still... as if he is with me always... and there is a confidence that comes from that.

Update?

Thought perhaps this blog would come to a slow end. But thought it worth just writing this out for, for no one, but me I suppose.

I am coming up on the two year anniversary of the summer of my discontent. The summer that I helped take care of my father through his last days. Bittersweet to be sure. To be able to give back to my father, to make him breakfast, to help him, to talk to him, to be there when...

My last entry written so long ago still seems to sum up where I am. Still wandering sometimes quite aimlessly, desperate for an anchor to keep me from wandering into a life of panic and desperation.

Yet, I have found that I am resilient, passionate, creative, driven. The arts seem to affect me more deeply than ever.... Powerful movies, books, music, paintings, bring me to biting my lip to hold back tears. Always a resolutely shy person... now I reach out to others, look for companionship, friendship. And yet, I find myself only letting people get so close, but not close enough. Good acquaintances seem to be where I am right now.

Interestingly, my father's death began at finding out about him... but now I have turned the mirror to me. There is good there, potential. There is also sweeping failure, panic. But I am alive... and I continue to strive... seek light, beauty, the good. Can I make a difference. Can I uphold my beliefs, my value, my strength? Can I rise up? Can I stand up for those that need me to? Can I face the mirror and say... you are worthy?

Not yet.

Atonement

My wife and I rented the movie, "Atonement" on a swampy spring night. The movie was powerful, crude at times, and beautiful in its way.

There was a scene in the movie, that moved me so deeply that I feel scarred by its raw beauty and terrible honesty.

The scene begins with the main character stumbling upon the Dunkirk beach after the bloody battle has concluded. He is with two other comrades and the camera skillfully and randomly follows each soldier as they peruse the aftermath of the bloody battle. Soldiers carousing, horses being euthanized, a nuclear family consoling each other in shock of being thrust into this scene, death, stranded boats, and one scene whereby soldiers sing a hymn that blends convincingly into the passion of the scene. The music, with an underpinning of cello, provides a powerful backdrop to the scene, so beautifully intertwined that it could have been written with the hand of God.

As the camera comes upon the main character his face is set in weary searching. Searching for what? We only find out part of what he is searching for at the end of the movie. But he is searching for so much more. And it is here that I thought of my father. But why? The scene played continuously in my conscious and subconscious for days. When I downloaded the music selection to my iPod and listened to it at a quiet moment at work, I cried, hopeless tears, and thought again of my father.

But why? Why did this scene that was so tied to the movie and its plot make me cry for my father? Because it was in that scene that I related to the main character's searching and hopelessness. He is searching for meaning, for hope, for stability, for the life that was, for the glimmer that there can be happy times again.

And that is how I find myself a year after my fathers death. Desperately searching, hoping. I thought by this time I would have moved beyond that deep mourning and painful aching. The sharp pain has eased, but the dull numbing pain remains and shows no signs of ebbing.

I am searching...

Elegy for Dunkirk-Atonement

Firsts and Lasts: Thanksgiving

First Thanksgiving without you, Dad. It was peaceful for me this year. Went to my in-laws. Watched some football.

As you may imagine, I thought back about past Thanksgivings. I thought of .... well, raking leaves.

I remember standing in a mountain of wet leaves. Putting them out to the curb. A patient of yours stopped by with a big pick-up truck and asked if he could haul them away for you. Dana and I were so impatient to go in and watch some of the noon football game, yet, here we were stuffing leaves in a dingy old pick up truck, wet and cold.

You enjoyed raking leaves, I know. For you, it was a chance to get outside, breathe the fresh Autumn air. Get some mild excercise. It cleared your mind from your never ending thoughts of your patients and their problems.

I never enjoyed these times, I have to admit that. I think you suspected as well. Our faces must have looked awefully dejected. I longed for the day you would tell Dana and me that you would like to throw a football around, or go to a baseball game. Although you did take us to two football games (one I distinctly remember OJ Simpson trotting on to the field) we knew that you didn't enjoy it.

So there it is, I hated raking leaves, but Dad, that doesn't mean a damn thing. I came to understand why you did it. And I also deeply understand that while most fathers may have played ball with their sons, you were more concerned about providing a future for us. You were driven, and raking leaves was another way to bend your will to make our yard a more pleasant place to look at. I don't think I will ever enjoy raking leaves, and I often just shuffle them into the bushes rather than put them out to the curb. That is okay, and I understand, and I love you for all the things you did do for me. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Dad, I miss you....

Dad, I miss.....

• your thoughtful advice
• your soapy smell, a mix of Dial soap and talcum powder
• your deep breathing
• holding your hand at your bedside
• your sense of humor, that never failed you no matter how much pain you were in
• your thoughtful look, index finger horizontal below your nose, the rest of your hand along your chin
• your smile
• Seeing you cup your hand to your right ear, to listen to someone
• The determined look you get on your face before hitting a golf ball
• Your grilled hamburgers, thick, juicy, and barely cooked
  

The Birch Tree

There was a white birch tree in my parents yard that has been there as long as I remember. It was always my favorite. It is the only white birch that I know of in the neighborhood and beyond. It has stood strong and proud, offering shade and shelter to all. The birch's many virtues include bark that is both soothingly attractive yet rugged, which is why the Eries and other natives used it for canoes and used its sap to make medicinal tea.

As my father was struggling through his final days, I took a walk in our yard to clear my mind. I stopped and looked at the stump of the birch tree. It had become diseased this past year and sadly needed to be cut down. I deeply missed how that tree had stood out among the others, not ostentatiously, but bright, sturdy and bold. On closer examination I found that from the remaining roots, new shoots were sprouting, green and glistening, thirsting for the sunlight, bursting with youthfulness and energy.

The impact of that imagery was comforting, knowing that my father was very much like that birch, strong and proud, singular and unique and willing to lend support, strength and provide the ability to heal. The new growth I saw sprouting from the roots remind me that my father's virtues and legacy as well as his family's genes will live on and thrive.

As I returned from my walk that day, and came back to the parlor where my father was deeply resting, I looked at our family picture that was taken long ago, that hangs on the wall beside my father's favorite chair. There in the picture, my father was standing proudly, among his family with his arm around me. And clearly behind him, is the birch tree.

In my opinion, the birch tree is the mightiest tree in the forest and my father is the mightiest man I have ever known.

Things I Learned from my Father

1. Golf can be enjoyed more with good friends.

2. Being a good neighbor means keeping your yard clean and neat

3. Don't be fooled by the latest health fads. Eat everything in moderation. Start your meals with salad.

4. Keep your shelves stocked at least 3 deep.

5. Forgiveness is Christ's greatest lesson

6. Being a professional means, you have a responsibility to act and dress professionally.

7. Always buy good clothes. They will last forever.

8. Don't push your religion or your politics, but defend them courageously when challenged.

9. Being frugal is different from being stingy.

10. Always be considerate

Books I Never Needed to Read

Tom Brokaw recently wrote a book called "The Greatest Generation". I never read it. Tim Russert wrote two books, one about his father, (Big Russ) and another about Fathers. Never read those either. In fact, I was loaned these books and told that they were good reads. I never cracked the covers.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm sure they're fine books by fine authors. Yet, I never felt the need to read them. Primarily because what they were offering was what I didn't need to know. I already knew it. The Brokaw book highlighted the WWII generation and hailed their sacrifices, courage, and values. Certainly this generation embodied all of those and more and subsequent generations fell short all too often. I didn't need to read that book because I already knew that this generation was great because my father and mother were a part of that golden generation and they not only embodied the characteristics of their time, but passed on their tales and tributes of the fine members through stories and friendships.

For example, my father was in college, attending, Ivy League, Cornell University, when he received his call of service. Without complaint he went and served in the Navy as a Medic. He was in San Diego preparing to go to war when the good news of the war's end came. He finished his enlistment and eventually returned to his calling and became a medical doctor. His country called, he answered, no questions asked. Movie stars, sports stars, people from all walks of life also answered their country's call without hesitation or complaint.

I suppose I could go on and on about my father and his generation's values. They weren't the perfect generation, but they sure seemed to have a good idea of the balance between family, country, religion, and just down right consideration for their fellow man.

I thought I could write a great essay on how we should go back to the ways of the Greatest Generation, but I know those days are gone. Yet, as we salute more and more of these great men and women, we should not merely salute. We should do as the books written about them aim to do. Reflect on their sacrifice and more important their many virtues. And perhaps once again carry the mantle of what they stood for.

Fallen

About 3 weeks ago my father fell for the 3rd time in one day. After a few days of radiation therapy he started becoming dizzy. His first few tumbles were mild. My mother with some neighborly assistance was able to get him back on his feet. His last fall was when he was sitting out on the back patio. Lately, he had often sat here so he could bathe in the sunlight to replenish his vitamin D and to look out on the expanse of his property. There are pictures of my father in his younger days taking a nap out on the lawn. He would just find a patch of grass and lay down on a hot summer day. There is a picture in my baby book of him laying on the grass with me resting my head on his legs and our black dachshund next to me. I remember that day despite being but 5 years old. He would do that from time to time when I was that young, and I always wondered why he did it. Yet looking at that picture its as if the those well groomed blades of grass where whispering to him, and he in his turn was dreaming of the labors that lawn had known. Once a thick forest, then a pasture for a milk cow, then a full blown garden with fruit trees and corn, and lastly a well manicured lawn. Whispering. Maybe my father was still listening to the lawn as he sat there for the last time. When he fell for the third time he couldn't get up, which reminded me of that awful commercial with the old lady who had "fallen and can't get up". No humor to this situation. My mother called me and I was out the door. He was laying on the cold patio stones with his head on the cushion that was used for the patio furniture. The ambulance came and I instantly knew this was a landmark that would be crossed for the last time.

Day 1-Finding out

The Hospice worker looked directly into my eyes and answered my question, "I think he has about 2 weeks. Yes, 14 days. How do you react? Disbelief? Crashing depression? Heartfelt tears? Bitter anger? Honestly, none of these. I have been numb. Numb because I don't care? Hardly, numb to survive, numb to keep my composure, numb to help my father, numb to help my wife and kids, numb to support my mother. Mostly numb so I don't break. Because once I break, I won't be able to help, won't be able to support, won't be able to stop crying. Numb.

Let me try to explain. My father has had esophageal cancer over the past year. He has endured numerous treatments, medications, hospital visits, 1st opinions, 2nd opinions, opinions wanted, opinions unwanted. Through it all he fought. Rarely complaining, doggedly doing what his doctors recommended. At his 80th birthday party, he was the picture of health. He was able to play golf with his friends, basking in the in their comradeship, take his loyal dog Nell for sunlit strolls and stick throwing beach escapades, and reading. Reading all the books that he was never able to in his life's committed work as a medical doctor.

We all felt redeemed. He made it. He must be turning the corner. He has beaten the odds. Survived this awful life's episode. So many of the people at his birthday party commented on how good he looked. 80 years old and doing just fine.

The decline came quickly. So it seemed. After a visit at the Cleveland Clinic they told him that the cancer had spread to his brain. The medication that he took so reluctantly to prevent this didn't work. The cancer stayed one step ahead. It had also spread in the esophagus. How could it be? He looked so good. He was playing golf every day. He was...

He was quickly being tackled. Like African Lions, patiently surrounding their prey and waiting for the weak. He left the golf course one day in the middle of the round. How many times had he done this as a doctor , hastily leaving to go help a patient. Not this time. He left because he was too tired. This was a ominous sign and we knew it. We knew it. When my mom told me, my stomach clenched. Like it is now, recalling. It was all too strong of a sign. Cancer was winning.

After that day it seemed that each day brought the loss of something. No more walks with the dog, no more hamburgers or hot dogs on the grill, no more meetings with the numerous civic organizations which he discreetly belonged, no more driving in his car. One of his first big defeats. His car was and is an object of pride. His cars were always maintained and treated with respect. As a child, I begrudgingly washed his cars. They were spotless, and left car salesmen clamoring to sell to my father knowing they would get a car in mint condition upon his trade in. The loss of driving meant taking away a level of freedom that is taken for granted. No longer.

I find myself blathering a bit here. So I will pause and hopefully write again another day with more clarity. If you read this please comment and tell me what you think. I'd appreciate any comments.