While living in the hospital back in June of 2011, I found myself thinking of Dad. It had been six months since he died. Losing him was a bitter blow to my heart. I was convinced that he had beat cancer forever, and that he would live a whole lot longer. Not so. And yet, as I looked at Rachel, tangled up in wires and tubes for dialysis, I was glad he wasn’t around to see her like this. But as he might say, I could not hide from this stark reality, both of losing him and my daughter’s fight ahead.
Shakespeare once said, “Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.” Both my parents, and then Rachel, gave me such unconditional love. There’s no truer, more pure love than the kind that comes freely like that.
My father gave me unsought love. He gave me gallons of it growing up, from birth to adulthood. And of course, I loved him right back. The love we had for each other left an indelible mark, so much so that I bear neither doubts nor regrets.
His presence in my life was part of his gift. One of the things I loved about him was his voice. He was a tenor whose song could fill a room with a lively, crisp, controlled vibrato. For my cousin’s wedding in 2001, he sang “The Lord’s Prayer.” When he got to the final refrain, “forever and ever,” he unleashed a barrage of goosebumps on the back of my neck and onto everyone else. I had to reposition myself in the seat, it was so powerful.
His voice has been reverberating in my spirit from the start. I can remember being about 4 years old. We were living in a small home in SW Minneapolis on Zenith Avenue. I recall that we were hosting a family gathering of Chicago relatives, and my father was holding a conversation with others as he held me. I must have been tired, as I put head onto his chest as I wrapped my arms around his body, holding him tight. My left ear was pressed against his ribs.
As he spoke, his voice echoed in my ears, drumming into my heart of memory. I knew then that his voice was special, and that moment, the sound of his voice as I was pressed against his ribs, still remains fresh in my mind, even forty years later.
His facial expressions made us laugh, made him a good actor, and made me want to flatter him with my own mimicry. Even now, if I want to make Rachel laugh or my students think twice about something, I conjure up my father’s expression, in the hopes my audience will notice.
“Hmmmm….let’s see when that next assignment is due….” [Cue Dad’s question mark look on my face, with the eyebrows arched and a low voiced pensive hhhmmmm.]
“Hey Rachel, is this a baseball bat?” [Cue Dad’s love of baseball, and I take a cucumber and start swinging, offering a gallant shout of ‘Striiiikkeee three! Yer ouuut!!’]
Even his handwriting was a gorgeous gift. In my wallet, I carry with me a note he wrote to me. It came with the flowers my parents sent me when I turned 40: “YOU DID IT! Your forties are great! Love Mom and Dad.” If I need a lift, I pull that card out and peer at the loopy, loving curves of his penmanship.
For my father in his forties, he was enjoying a run at Chanhassen Dinner Theatres. He was still getting work as an actor and model. And I was able to witness this as a high school and college student.
For my forties, my hero of a man died from a second boxing match with cancer, and my only daughter nearly died from E.Coli. My father got the better end of the deal for his fortuitous forties, as of this writing, but I’m only 45. There’s still time to make good on his proclamation. I got hope.
When my father passed away, my daughter’s presence filled the empty vessel in me from the ache of losing Dad. A month after his death, I can remember playing Candyland with Rachel for hours, making it through without shedding a single tear. Her infectious smile and energy was the gift that lifted me up. Playing a board game with her is what my father did with me, so many years ago. He and I have this in common: the patience for board games to be fun, as others might consider it a bore and a chore. To us, games are a part of the gift of child-raising.
As Jim and I sat in that hospital room, waiting for Rachel’s kidneys to spring back to life, stroke number one hit. The heavy meds masked the tell tale signs. We didn’t recognize it right away. I didn’t report it in the updates; my denial forced me to skirt around it. I grew more and more frightened that I had lost the very person who saved me – and my mother for that matter – from the depths of grief.
The severity of Rachel’s illness was just beginning, and our marriage was tested from the moment we got to Children’s. As the shadows grew around me, it became clear what my mother and dad went through as he fought his way from a Stage IV Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma diagnosis. In sickness and in health…Isn’t that what the vows say?
A new understanding of unsought love rose up in me after Dad died. When he was alive, I assumed that my parents took care of each other. Even while living at the hospital, I found myself thinking about mom all the time. I think about things that would make her happy, I think about things that she may need, I think about her much more than I did when Dad was alive. This shows me what love is: putting her needs first before mine. I’m duty-bound to do so.
I should know that no one gets out of this life alive, and I do know this on an intellectual level. However, my heart is another story. My dad wasn’t just a father; he was also an advisor, a cheerleader, a patient listener, a communicator, a leader, and a friend. I miss this.
My father was a strong supporter of mine. When I landed my first teaching gig, his voice cracked as he spoke to my mother of how proud of me he was. He always found a way to be positive about damn near everything. Even cancer.
I’ll never forget sitting in the living room – I was pregnant with Rachel at the time – and I was listening to him say to his family that he had Stage IV Non-Hodgkins. He said that his first round of chemo was “easy.” Now, in retrospect, I see how brave he really was, but when you love your family as much as I think he did, you spare them the frightful details and instead shift to baseball and weather.
I have often thought that had Dad lived to see Rachel get so, so sick, his heart would have broken, and I would have seen the most tears fall. So in some ways, I’m grateful he’s not here to witness such tragedy.
If he were here, I know his “unsought love” would flow from the deepest rivulets of his heart. He would be there for as many surgeries, as many therapy sessions, and as many moments as he could. Without him, the Bus Drivers – Grandma Kathy, Jim, and I – do the heavy lifting. Through fatigue, through aches, pains, and heartache, we are there for Rachel.
My father taught me how to smile in the face of uncertainty. And he is quite possibly the one who modeled heroic hope, setting the example for me, for Jim, and for my mom to follow. I could hear him say, in this frightful moment, “you gotta believe that it’s gonna get better.” This is what unsought love is all about.