My Father, My Buddy, My Baby

For those who don't follow along on Instagram, I suppose that I should explain our recent radio silence.  Last week, following a terrible accident while under the care of "medical professionals," my father passed away.  Last night we held a memorial service celebrating a brilliant man and a life well-lived.  He deserved so much better from life and from me, but these are the words I could string together in an attempt to honor the bottomless source of creativity, service, and joy that is my hero - my dear father.

Being your father’s favorite child isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be.  Actually, it is fraught with anxiety.  There are the front row views of him playing human Plinko while falling out of the neighbor’s tree (and hitting every branch on the way down), the worry of wondering whether or not he has gone permanently blind after performing a "quick weld" without the benefit of a welding mask.  There is the embarrassment of the long series of notes excusing my junior-high absences that chronicled my diplomatic endeavors in South Africa and the crippling nature of the subsequent traveler’s diarrhea.  In going through his papers, we actually found a rough draft of one such excuse note:

"[Mr. Tiny] hurt his ankle when he kicked his brother.

After severely disabling his brother he turned criminal, 

going on the 'run' and robbing a liquor store.  After the 

ensuing gun battle with police, he fled to Mexico where 

he is hiding out.  And this is why he can't run in P.E." 

There is also a lot of activity directing – the hallway wheelchair races, the sing-a-longs, and the impromptu living room dance parties (some that continued into our final days at the ICU).  But these examples are pretty universal among every “favorite child.”  Am I right?

I love hearing the memories of my dad that keep pouring in from friends and family.  The common themes among these stories are how talented, cheerful, funny, and helpful my dad was.  These remembrances are particularly valuable to me because my own memory is total rubbish.  They remind me of the brilliant, beautiful man who let me walk on his back when he needed a massage (a practice that ended many years ago - I promise you that it was not a contributing factor to his current condition).  They tell me more about the man who taught me how to draw a duck and a horse and a dog as we half-listened to the messages delivered in church.  They tell me about a life lived in service to his fellow man.  This isn’t to say that he was perfect; one memory that I do recall from our early years together features me as a petulant 4-year-old who refused to eat his portion of scalloped potatoes.   This act of defiance quickly became a battle of wills between father and son.  At first, I was handed the fairly-pedestrian threats of not getting dessert, not leaving the table, and not “passing Go” until my plate was cleaned.  Things escalated when neither threats nor bribery were working.  At one point, my mom gathered the other kids from the table and bundled them into their winter coats.  Sitting resolutely at the head of the table, my dad declared that if I didn’t eat the quickly-congealing potatoes, everyone was going to Disneyland without me.  Unmoved, I settled in for a long night at the dining table.  Even as the taillights of our Honda disappeared down the street, it occurred to me what a cruel joke this was to play on my siblings who were headed anywhere that night…but certainly not The Magic Kingdom.  After several trips around the block, my bitter band of brothers and sisters stumbled through the front door to a scene identical to the one they had left before.  With pursed lips, I continued my hunger strike, haughtily ignoring the desperate bargaining and berating.  I could feel the balance of power shifting to my side of the table.  It was at the precise moment when I was sure that I had won when an exasperated, young father unloaded the entire contents of a water pitcher over the head of his “favorite child.”  I think my obstinacy and my flair for the dramatic are genetic.  In the end, the joke is on you, Dad.  Now I can’t stop eating potatoes…it’s like I’m perpetually carb-loading for a marathon that I will never run!

For those who aren’t totally familiar with my dad’s recent history, I’ll give you my version of events.  Eight years ago, just shy of his 54^th birthday, my dad suffered a massive stroke that left him totally incapacitated.  We put his life, and ours, into the hands of medical professionals and held vigil night and day.  After a couple of months, our biggest celebration came when he was able to reach up and scratch his nose.  Two very trying years passed, both highlighted by successes and riddled with setbacks.  We were finally hitting our stride when he suffered yet another stroke that seemed to erase the progress he made and left us all wondering if there were to be any more birthdays for him.

Our inclination has always been to avoid reliving those tension-filled days because of the physical response we had to his prognosis.  Unable to train my mind to focus on anything other than overwhelming sadness, I resisted sleep and ached night and day.  For several days, we waited to see if the emergency procedures that were being performed on his behalf would have any positive impact.  Instructed to make peace and say our goodbyes, our family came together to face the most devastating outcome possible.  Then, sustained by IVs, a feeding tube, a ventilator, an arsenal of the latest in chemical engineering, prayers, faith, and the love of our family, he began to rally!

In recent years, it was obvious that many effects of his strokes were lasting- some seemed like cruel jokes.  My dad was a talker; like Will Rogers, my dad never met a man he didn't like and with whom he didn't have at least 5,972 things in common over which he could engage in a lengthy discourse (much to the chagrin of our mother...and the people waiting behind us in line at the grocery store checkout).  After the strokes, his speech became impacted by a syndrome common among stroke victims called aphasia; this made communication a major challenge, particularly with people outside of our family.  My dad was doer; as we dragged our feet behind him, he used every minute of his "free time" to improve our family home and to help neighbors, friends, church members, and extended family.  My dad was a Renaissance man; after replacing the brakes on my car, you would be just as likely to find him painting, cooking, or writing a poem as you would to find him installing a dishwasher or laying tile.  Confined to a wheelchair, he became unable to perform some of the simplest functions of personal care.  As a young man, my dad was an adventurer; he rode motorcycles and raced cars.  And as a father, he made time to take us out of school for a day of fun at museums and parks.  He had the ability to make interminably long road trips to visit family seem like Sunday joy rides.  It then became our responsibility to convey him using “Old Blue,” a specialty van with wheelchair accessibility.

In the wake of his illness and recovery, the biggest surprise was how little about him had changed.  Yes, he had become a little more fragile and a little more tender, but his brilliant mind was intact.  His sense of humor still had us rolling on the floor.  His passion for his wife was abiding.  His love for his children and grandson was abounding.  His concern for others was unwavering.  His faith was steadfast.  His desire to be of service was unyielding, his appreciation for beauty more profound, his courage undefeated.

It is interesting to see how his life was an amazing lesson, one to which I should have been taking more thorough and much more copious notes.  Since his illness, however, the lessons became more obvious.  I have had to learn to be of greater service to others.  I have had to try to be more loving.  I have had to embrace adventure and uncertainty.  I have had to rely on faith.  I've always been hilarious so that was not a problem.  Given the impossibly-big shoes to fill, I have felt utterly inept on the best of days.  Nevertheless, it has been my great honor to serve my father in a way that transformed the tumultuous early years of our relationship into something so pure, so simple, and so loving.  I am not a touchy-feely kind of guy but not a day passed when I didn’t hug the life out him, hold his big meat hook of a hand, and tell him that I loved him.  Even though his language was affected, he had many standard phrases that left our hearts soaring and let us know how deeply he appreciated us, including “I love you,” “Wow,” “Thank you,” “I do,” “Si” (he was bilingual), and “I think you’re beautiful/terrible/wonderful/bloody spectacular/fill in the blank.”   One time, he even told me that he thought I was sexy; I mean, this guy had some serious range.  Being a bit of a rabble-rouser, I always encouraged him to broaden his vocabulary.  Every day when I picked him up from “The Club,” I would buckle him in and ask him if he was ready to go.  When I received an answer in the affirmative, I would shout, “Then let’s…”  and at this point it was his job to fill in the blank with, “GOOOOOO, dammit!”  Just for the record, my mom told me it was okay to say dammit in church – but just today.

He was hilarious.  I honestly don’t know why it is that I spent the first part of my life vowing to be nothing like my father and the most recent part of my life trying so desperately to be half the man that he was.  My efforts to officially canonize him are still under review by the Pope but I just can’t help but remember him as a wonderful disciple of Christ.  He was a stellar example of walking the walk, talking the talk, and being of service to everyone around him.

If you ask my mom, she will tell you that he has become the perfect husband.  He eats what she wants him to eat.  He goes where she wants him to go.  He wears what she wants him to wear.  She is completely in charge of the finances.  And she always knows where he is.  I thought of him as the perfect baby.  With nothing but respect, I began to think of him as my child…my enormous, beautiful, bouncing baby boy.  The correlation works rather literally so you'll have to go with me on this; I changed him, I fed him, I buckled him into a special seat so that we could run errands and get to doctors appointments.  I tucked him in.  I even mashed up his medicine and mixed it with applesauce.  The tenderness I have felt for and from him was probably as parental as anything I will ever experience in this life.  There was genuine beauty in his gentle willingness to submit to us…as we maintained our reverence for his dignity.

My father was there when I took my very first breaths; I was there when he drew his very last.  I suppose that this is what we call the “circle of life,” but I am not ready.  I want a few more chances to scratch him behind the ear, to pluck his errant nose hairs, to rub his back, to hold his hand, to hear him say, “Wow!”  I want to hear him tell me again that I am "pretty special."  Everybody frowned on the idea, but my plan was to "Notebook" my way right along with him.  If you’ve seen that corny movie, then you know what I’m talking about.  In doing so, we would have tested not only God’s plan for us but also the weight capacity of a standard-issue hospital bed.  Yes, my dad left me, but he left me prepared for what lies ahead. 

The greatest gifts my dad has given me are purpose, an understanding of service, and a mother who exemplifies the true meaning of devotion.  No tribute to my father would be complete without acknowledging my beautiful mother.  My dad didn’t just love my mom; he had a passion for her.  That passion was expressed in quiet, simple gestures, in rip-roaring "discussions," and in public displays of affection.  It was intense.  Growing up in a house filled with humor, excitement, strong opinions, and passion, it is no wonder that our life has been, shall we say, colorful.  Through it all, my mom has been the most humble, steadfast, hard-working person I have ever known.  What can I say?  My parents chose the best of the best.  But besides her winning streak on PASSWORD and his regular first-place ribbons at chili cook-offs, my parents have lived a life free from major acclaim and a lot of high-profile credits to their names.  Together they built a life that was rich in ways that were not always obvious to the outside world. 

If you’ll indulge me, I’m going to "pull a Pat" and read you a poem I wrote.  Everyone in my family accuses me of being my mother’s son but writing poems is pure Dad.

THERE’S A LITTLE BROWN HOUSE

WITH A LITTLE BLUE DOOR

WHERE THE PEOPLE INSIDE 

ARE BITTERLY POOR.

THEIR SHABBY, OLD CLOTHES

AREN’T MEANT TO BE FUNNY.

THEY RECYCLE CANS

JUST FOR THE GAS MONEY.

THE CAR THAT THEY DRIVE

HAS TIRES THAT ARE WORN,

HAS BRAKES THAT ARE SQUEALING,

AND AN IMPOTENT HORN.

THE CHILDREN KEEP MOM 

IN A PERMANENT PANIC,

WHILE DAD JUST KEEPS BUSY 

AS HEAD CHEF AND MECHANIC.

THERE ARE SO MANY KIDS

WITH SO MANY NAMES

THAT WHEN ONE GETS IN TROUBLE 

EVERYONE’S BLAMED.

SOME PEOPLE WILL SCOFF

AT THE REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES

BUT THE FAMILY’S QUITE USED

TO THE GIGGLES AND GLANCES.

DESPITE HOW THINGS SEEM

FROM OUTSIDE THE DOOR,

THE PEOPLE INSIDE 

DON’T KNOW THAT THEY’RE POOR.

THE RAMSHACKLE STRUCTURE

TO THEM IS A COTTAGE.

AND THEY PLAN ON STAYING 

WELL INTO THEIR DOTAGE.

THEIR CLOTHES MAY BE CLASSED 

AS OLD HAND-ME-DOWNS,

BUT COME HALLOWEEN

THEY ARE PIRATES AND CLOWNS.

THEIR CAR IS A CHARIOT

THAT CARRIES THE LOAD

WHEN HUNTING DOWN PALM FRONDS

O’ER THE BUMPS IN THE ROAD.

CHEERFULNESS REIGNS 

AT THIS HUMBLE DWELLING

BUT THERE’S STILL TIME FOR FIGHTS,

CALLING NAMES, AND SOME YELLING.

THE CHARM OF THIS TRIBE

MAY BE LOST ON OTHERS,

BUT TO PEER THROUGH THE WINDOW

ONE QUICKLY DISCOVERS - 

THAT HIDDEN INSIDE,

THEY’VE COLLECTED A TREASURE

THAT CANNOT BE COUNTED

FOR IT’S FAR BEYOND MEASURE.

THIS FORTUNE THEY PRIZE

ALL OTHERS ABOVE

IS GOD’S GREATEST GIFT…

A FAMILY’S LOVE.

In his very last hours with us, I think my dad was just waiting for me to ask him one more time, “Are you ready?  Then let’s go, dammit!”  Instead, as his breathing slowed, I told him how proud I was of him.  I asked him to watch over us.  I thanked him for being an incredible father.  I told him how much I loved him.  

It was never a question whether my dad loved me or not but he gave me plenty of opportunities to wonder if, given the choice, we would ever be friends in "real life."  On the last day I shared with him before he entered the hospital, he gave me one final gift.  In between the Christmas carols and dance routines, he traded in his typical loving refrain for something much more precious to me.  Whenever I entered or left the room, instead of offering me his usual “I love you,” he looked me in the eye and repeated “I like you.  I like you.  I like you.”  I like you too, Pop.

My Father • My Buddy • My Baby
November 2, 1953 - December 11, 2015

"Dear Father" - Colin Hay

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny