Dad
I have been mulling how to write this for the past several weeks. You see, my father died last month at the age of 83 from what our family calls a mercifully short battle with lung cancer. The disease was diagnosed in early February, and six weeks later Dad slipped away peacefully at the hospital after a two-day stay. He lived well and he died well.
My father was a complex yet simple man, proud yet humble but always a wonderful father and dedicated husband to the very end. His life played out like a sweeping drama where the hero triumphs over adversity.
When my father was four, his parents divorced. His mother did not want him, his father could not care for him. Dad lived for a few years with his grandfather, but at the age of 8 was admitted to Boy's Town, the famous "home for unwanted boys." Dad's years at this hallowed institution were by his admission quite pleasant, and he enjoyed his stay despite the rejection he experienced from his mother.
Dad spent a short time in college, and tried reconciling with his mother before joining the army during WWII as a medic. After the war, during a stint in Germany, he met my mother. They married and had my brother around the time of the Korean conflict, in which my father served. I was born right around the time of the Viet Nam conflict, in which he also served.
After serving his country in three military actions, my father retired when I was around 7 years old. The only work a soldier who had served almost 30 years in the military could get after returning to civilian life required long hours, but my father never complained. Although he worked nights and weekends, Dad always made time to attend various school functions. He always made me feel he was proud of my accomplishments, and told me I could do anything I set my mind to do. Dad was an incredible cheerleader; in the early days of my administrative business he expressed his faith that I would make it work, and he was right.
Dad taught me to speak my mind. We were often on the opposite side of issues (though never house rules; it was always politics, social issues, etc.) and our discussions could quickly grow a bit loud. One time Mom told me to quit arguing with my father. I complied, and the house was quiet for awhile. One day Dad asked me if anything was wrong. No, I responded, why? He then said I just didn't seem interested in talking anymore. I told him Mom made me promise not to argue with him anymore, and he said "It's not arguing when you are defending your point of view."
We are a very close family, and have always been. I have visited my parents several times a week for the 18+ years I've been married, as my husband and I live 1/4 mile from their home. I feel incredibly fortunate to have been so close during my father's illness, and to just share his presence even during the times when he wasn't feeling well. But I choose not to dwell any longer on those brief six weeks. I will remember him as the smiling face in the audience when I was in chorus, and as the gardener working the soil. I will remember him as the unforgettable, awesome father that he was, and still is in my memory.
My father was a complex yet simple man, proud yet humble but always a wonderful father and dedicated husband to the very end. His life played out like a sweeping drama where the hero triumphs over adversity.
When my father was four, his parents divorced. His mother did not want him, his father could not care for him. Dad lived for a few years with his grandfather, but at the age of 8 was admitted to Boy's Town, the famous "home for unwanted boys." Dad's years at this hallowed institution were by his admission quite pleasant, and he enjoyed his stay despite the rejection he experienced from his mother.
Dad spent a short time in college, and tried reconciling with his mother before joining the army during WWII as a medic. After the war, during a stint in Germany, he met my mother. They married and had my brother around the time of the Korean conflict, in which my father served. I was born right around the time of the Viet Nam conflict, in which he also served.
After serving his country in three military actions, my father retired when I was around 7 years old. The only work a soldier who had served almost 30 years in the military could get after returning to civilian life required long hours, but my father never complained. Although he worked nights and weekends, Dad always made time to attend various school functions. He always made me feel he was proud of my accomplishments, and told me I could do anything I set my mind to do. Dad was an incredible cheerleader; in the early days of my administrative business he expressed his faith that I would make it work, and he was right.
Dad taught me to speak my mind. We were often on the opposite side of issues (though never house rules; it was always politics, social issues, etc.) and our discussions could quickly grow a bit loud. One time Mom told me to quit arguing with my father. I complied, and the house was quiet for awhile. One day Dad asked me if anything was wrong. No, I responded, why? He then said I just didn't seem interested in talking anymore. I told him Mom made me promise not to argue with him anymore, and he said "It's not arguing when you are defending your point of view."
We are a very close family, and have always been. I have visited my parents several times a week for the 18+ years I've been married, as my husband and I live 1/4 mile from their home. I feel incredibly fortunate to have been so close during my father's illness, and to just share his presence even during the times when he wasn't feeling well. But I choose not to dwell any longer on those brief six weeks. I will remember him as the smiling face in the audience when I was in chorus, and as the gardener working the soil. I will remember him as the unforgettable, awesome father that he was, and still is in my memory.
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