Father's Day 2013

This one's not the first Father's Day I've spent with my dad, but it's hitting me hard anyway.  There is so much stress and turmoil going on in my life these days related to my job that I don't feel like I am in "top shape" when it comes to being prepared to cope with the grief that still so often catches me by surprise, either with its timing or its intensity or both.

I looked through some old pictures today and found so many of my dad doing things he loved to do, whether it was sitting in a lawn chair in the sun reading the paper, running, sitting on the beach, or spending time with his family.  In all of them, he looks happy and healthy and as if he is perfectly content, and for that I am so grateful, except for a song that keep playing in my head:

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THAT SONG ...

Today I found myself thinking about how on the day after my dad had died, I stood in the shower in the guest bathroom of my parents' house, crying and crying, feeling so much like my heart was breaking that I thought I needed to hold my hand over my chest to keep it together.  Never had I imagined - or even thought to imagine - that a day like that day was coming, or like the days like the ones I figured were still to come.  I had no idea how I was going to get through even that first day without my dad there physically with me, much less through the rest of my life.  I felt like I was falling down a well in slow motion, and I knew that at some point I would seriously need to reconsider my world view and, in essence, myself.

So many times, I've thought back to the last night that my dad was in the hospital and to the way that he insisted on having all the lights turned out and for Jennifer and me to be on either side of him as he tried and tried to sleep.  I remember how he reached out in the darkness to grab my hand and Jennifer's without even looking, and, recognizing the trust, the love, and the vulnerability in that move, I quietly started to cry there beside him in the dark; I was so grateful that he was so sure that we were right there with him.    

What I wouldn't give for just one more day with him.  I wouldn't even care what we did together; I just have so much to tell him and to talk to him about.  It's like I'm the one now reaching out into the dark to grab a hand to hold, and I'm so grateful that I have people who love me (and tolerate me) enough to serve that purpose, but it's still something that's so much tougher that I could have ever imagined.

Happy Father's Day to the man who was the perfect father for me.
I miss you and love you more than I can adequately express.

So Far Still To Go

One day last week I was driving home after a stressful day at work, and I started thinking about how I wish that I could call my dad.  There is so much going on in my life that I feel like I need to share with him, and the fact that I can't call him and ask his advice about some of it is still so hard to bear.  I could hardly finish the drive home through my tears.

I talk a lot about perspective, but I still have so far to go on this road.  I wish that I could feel that my time with my dad was enough; not feeling that way makes me feel like I'm not grateful or appreciative of the time I had with him or that I had him for a dad at all.  

Sometimes I still can't believe that what happened happened - and I can't believe that he's gone.  Damn I miss him so much.

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, deep contrition, and of unspeakable love." ~Washington Irving

Knock, Knock!

On the next to the last day that my dad was on this Earth, I promised him that I would take care of my mom and my grandmother and my siblings, and I told him that we were so thankful to have had him to pull all of us together as a family.  And then, as I knew I needed to say for him, after all he had done for me all of my life, I said to him, "You can go. But you have to come back to me!" Dad, who had lain still for more than a day except for the slow rise and fall of his chest from rhythmic breathing, started stirring in the bed, moving around and kicking the covers in an agitated fashion.  Instantly I realized that he had heard me, and I was ashamed of the selfishness behind what I knew he thought I was asking him to do.  "Oh, Dad," I cried. "I know your body can't do it anymore. I know you are doing everything you can to stay here with us, but it's ok if you can't. You've finished the race: you've done everything you needed to do, and we will be ok."  He immediately settled down again, and I just sat there beside him, quietly crying, biting my lip to keep from wailing because I knew if I did that he would hear and be upset by that too.  I wanted to tell him that what I'd meant was that I hoped he could try to send me a sign, after he'd gone on ahead, and that he could come and be with me and the rest of the family later, in spirit.  I didn't tell him that, though, because I didn't want to risk causing him any more distress, and so I told myself that he would do it anyway, without having been asked, if he could find a way.

There are so many times these days that I feel him right here with me, and my sisters and my mom feel the same thing at times, too.  Sometimes I feel his spirit when I look up into the sky and see big white clouds contrasted against a blue sky - or when I see a beautiful sunset or sunrise.  Sometimes it's when I see or hear or even smell something that reminds me of him in such a strong way that it's impossible to ignore or overlook.  And sometimes the thing that makes me feel a connection with my dad is seeing a redbird, something that often happens at times when I need comfort or encouragement or when I just need something to make me smile and think more positively.  

My sister Nancy was the one who first commented that she had been noticing a redbird around her house and in other locations on a frequent basis.  After she said that, I started thinking about it and realized that I'd seen one around more often that I usually did, too. Other people in the family began to comment that they had seen redbirds in certain locations at different times, and over time it has evolved as a symbol of comfort and positivity whenever any of us sees a redbird.  

I sometimes think that Dad's spirit takes turns spending time now with each person he loved and watched over while he was here in this world.  If one or more of us are on the road, I think he's probably traveling along with us; if one of us is having a particularly difficult day, he's likely there to comfort us, often in redbird form.  

Yesterday morning, not long after I'd gotten to work, I checked my email and saw one in my Inbox from my sister Nancy's friend Suzanne, who, along with her family, has been having to make some very difficult decisions and plans as her dad enters into hospice care.  In the email, which Suzanne had sent to me and both of my sisters, she told us about something that had happened that morning as she was getting ready for the day.  Suzanne knew my dad and has heard us talk about the significance that redbirds have to us, and she has given me permission to share her words and a that photo she took:

I was getting ready in my dad's bathroom for a meeting at the hospice home. I was thinking about you girls and what you went through and how tough this all is. When I hear one knock at the window.  I think it's something to do with the storm. 

Knock again.  So I look, and this determined cardinal is there.  Going back and forth on the window.  Making sure I see him.  He only delivers one knock at a time .... but they are forceful.

Notice me!  I run to get my iPad to get the photo and capture the moment.  He knocks while I run away.  I take the photo and return to getting ready.  KNOCK.  

I turn around and say out loud, "Yes, I see you. And I know everything will be ok."

He knocks one last time and then is gone.  

And I have chills and an unbelievable sense of peace at the road we are about to travel.//

~Suzanne

Here is the photo she took - the redbird is in the bottom right corner of the window, looking in at her.

Not Knowing, Part 1

One of the things that my dad worried about the most when he was sick and even before then was his mom, who had been living alone in a small town in southern Alabama until the age of 87, when she suffered a stroke.

Kind of like my dad, she lost her independence in the blink of an eye, never to regain it, even though we had hopes that she would, at least to some extent.  Kind of like my dad, she was in very good shape physically and mentally, until her illness struck.  But unlike my dad, in addition to her physical skills, her cognitive abilities also were severely affected as a result of the stroke, and she did not have anyone in her area to take the kind of care of her that was required after that or the resources to have it provided in her home.  And so, as her hospital stay after the stroke was coming to an end, a skilled nursing facility was strongly recommended by the medical staff, and my parents decided to move her to one that was close to their house, one state over from hers.  

The downside was that the move disoriented her more and that, since it wasn't feasible for her friends from her hometown to visit her several hours from her hometown, she ended up being pretty isolated there, at least from people who had been involved in her life as it was before she got sick.  The upside was that my parents were able to check in on her several times a week and to make sure she was getting good care, and the rest of us were able to see her too whenever we were in town.  After the initial landslide loss of function, her memory and her physical status continued to deteriorate, a little at a time.  Eventually she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease and she wasn't even consistent in recognizing those of us she had known for all of our lives, but she always recognized her son, my dad.  

Grandmom's first Christmas in the nursing home

Dad and I discussed many times over the years how tough it was to see Grandmom be so changed, so dependent.  She had always been a bold woman who strived to do things for herself and to do her part in making the world a better place.  All her life, she had lived on a fixed income; she did not have fancy things or take fancy trips, but she was grateful and generous and happy all the same.  Before she got sick, at the beginning of every year, she wrote out a detailed budget for herself for the upcoming year and mailed it to my dad.  The few times I happened to see what she'd written, I was flabbergasted at how specific it was and at my grandmother's frugality, and I was amazed that despite the limits of her finances she still committed to tithing to her church year after year.  She was not what one would call a Southern belle; rather, she was much more of an activist and a liberal-thinker for her time who valued individual rights and freedom for all.  

QUITE THE DAREDEVIL IN YEARS PAST:  With her younger brother Freddie, in Daytona Beach, FL ...

... and riding the bull at Gilley's

When Grandmom first got to the nursing home, she needed supervision around the clock and help with some things, but there were some things about her personality that were still the same.  She had always been a competitive person, and we saw shades of that come out in things she did there too; once when we visited her she told us she was the fastest person on a walker in the whole place.  Another time she proudly informed us that she had won the Bingo game there the day before, and she showed us a ladybug broach that she'd won for proof.  She was always so grateful for visitors, even as she became unclear on exactly who we all were, and she especially lit up whenever she saw my dad.

About a month before Dad was diagnosed with cancer, he and my mom sat down with Grandmom's doctor to discuss her steadily declining condition.  She had become completely dependent on others for everything, including feeding herself, and had been having some trouble with swallowing that seemed to indicate that she had had one or more mini-strokes that were hastening her decline.  Because of the swallowing difficulties, she was at risk for pneumonia and she was also having bouts of depression and anxiety, even though she did not seem to be aware of where she was or what was going on around her most of the time.  The physician recommended that my dad, who held Grandmom's medical power of attorney, enroll his mother in hospice care, which meant that she would continue to be cared for in the nursing home but that she would also be monitored by medical staff from a hospice agency who were specifically trained in end-of-life comfort care.  Wanting the best possible care for his mom, Dad signed the papers with a heavy heart; he'd committed to providing for and to looking after his mom years ago and felt in his heart that this was the best choice for her, as did we.

Worrying about her, her prognosis, and her comfort continued to weigh heavily on my dad in the days ahead; in fact, the last text message I ever got from him, which was just before he was diagnosed, was about his concerns for her.  He said he felt that she was declining so quickly that he didn't think she would survive even one month longer.  He said that he was worried about how "the girls" (meaning my children and my nieces, all of whom had visited Grandmom in the nursing home recently but had not seen her in her present condition) were taking the news of her decline; the whole situation was both difficult and sad for everyone involved.  Dad continued to visit his mom whenever he could, as did my mom; thinking about her was a part of their normal routine. 

Dad last visited him mom in the nursing home the day before he was rushed to the hospital and the mass in his head was discovered.  Suddenly, his own health was unstable and his life was at risk, weirdly and shockingly in some ways even more so than his 90 year-old mother.

In his typical way, though, he continued to worry about his responsibilities (his mom being one of the things topping his list) throughout the course of his illness, despite the fact that he was very sick himself.  During his first hospitalization and his stay at the rehab hospital, my sisters and I stood in for Dad, with at least one of us checking in on Grandmom every few days.  It was something we were glad to do; it felt like helping to take care of her was also helping to take care of him.

The first time we went to see her was the day after Dad's surgery.  My sister Jennifer and I went, while Mom and Nancy stayed at the hospital with Dad.  We were still reeling from having just been given the devastating diagnosis less than 24 hours before, and walking into Grandmom's room in the nursing home with a smile on our faces as if nothing was wrong was tough, to say the least. I couldn't shake the anguish that came from thinking about how much had changed in the six days it had been since Dad had last been there to visit his mom, but I felt in my heart that the news that Dad was so sick that he was unable to visit her would be more than Grandmom could (or should have to) handle at that point.  Neither of us is much of an actress, but, for Grandmom's sake and for Dad's, thankfully Jennifer and I pulled it off, and I was glad we were able to spare her the pain and fear that had taken root in the hearts of the rest of us who did know the truth.

After we told Grandmom goodbye in her room, we went to the nursing station down the hall to talk to the nurse who was taking care of her that day.  My mom had been doing Grandmom's laundry, collecting her dirty clothes weekly and then washing them and returning the clothes to her; however, given what we were faced with dealing with at that point, we decided to tell the staff that we wanted to have the laundry done at the facility until further notice.  "I'm Nellie's granddaughter," I said, "and I need to let you know that my dad is very sick and so neither he nor my mom will be able to visit her for awhile.  In fact, I need to give you my contact information and ask that you call me in case of emergency or if Grandmom needs anything."

Behind the desk, the nurse and several nursing assistants all stopped what they were doing and looked at me like I was speaking in tongues.  One of the CNA's leaned in and said, "Are you talking about that really nice bald-headed man that visits Miss Nellie all the time?"

"Yes, that's my dad," I told her.

"He's not sick," she asserted. "He was just up here to see her a few days ago, and he was smiling and joking around like he always does. He's the picture of good health!"

I could tell by the looks on the faces of everyone who was listening that they thought I was mistaken.  I understood their thought process; it was the same one that was going through my head repeatedly, fueling my shock and disbelief as well.  I gave them a brief run-down on what had happened: "He got sick while he was out running last Saturday and was taken to the hospital, where they found out he had a mass in his head.  Yesterday, he had surgery, and we found out that he has brain cancer."  There.  I said it, out loud, for the first time.  I felt sick to my stomach, until the voice in my head told me that it wasn't true, it couldn't be true.  

But it was.  In what would become a pattern from that moment forward, as soon as I delivered the awful news about my dad, I was put into a position of having to try to comfort the recipients of the news.  The second after the words left my mouth, I felt guilty about having had to deliver such a blow.  I've since learned that there is a term for something like this called  'vicarious traumatization,' which happens when a trauma specialist spends day after day being exposed to another's trauma.  But it was necessary that they knew, and the news was out.  "We do not want my grandmother to be told about my dad; please make a note in the chart and be sure everyone knows."  I stood there watching them try to keep their composure, until the nurse whom I had originally addressed stepped from around the desk and hugged me.  When she backed up, she had tears in her eyes, and she said, "I'm so sorry.  Please tell him and your mom that we will take extra good care of Miss Nellie."  I swallowed my own tears, thanked her, handed her a piece of paper with my contact information and instructions about having the laundry done for Grandmom on it, and backed away, before I lost it.  

Thinking back, I wonder if what I thought was true actually was:  did I insist that Grandmom not be told because it was better for her, or for us?  Was it too much for her to handle having to hear the news, or for me to have to tell her?  Was it taking the easy way out in avoiding having to deal with her emotions?  Was it protecting her or us?  I think it was for her sake, and for Dad's, but like a lot of things that went on during that time, I can't be sure.  Whether or not it was right to decide not to tell her that day and in the weeks that followed is something that I have questioned many times since then.  Regardless, though, with Grandmom's care squared away, Jennifer and I left the nursing home and headed back to the hospital.

In a life-is-weirder-than-fiction moment, later that day we discovered that Robbie, one of the nurses that was on Grandmom's hospice service, also worked at the hospital where Dad was.  She heard about Dad from the nurses at the nursing home and came to see Dad in the ICU.  (Maybe she was verifying the accuracy of what I'd said for the rest of the staff at Grandmom's facility.)  It seemed to confuse Dad at first when he saw her there, which I actually thought was a good sign, because it was kind of puzzling to have someone involved in Grandmom's care show up on the scene at the hospital where Dad was.  Robbie asked some questions about what had happened and about what was going on with Dad, and then she told us that she would check in on Grandmom more often than usual and would report back to my parents.  We were grateful to have the help; it eased our minds, especially Dad's, to know that Grandmom would be getting some extra attention and interaction.  

It's funny how what seems tragic can change in a single moment.  As things were, after the news of hospice care having become necessary for Grandmom, my family was grieving.  It seemed terrible to have had to watch her decline as she became more physically challenged and more disoriented.  And now, in the blink of an eye, the tragedy had changed, or maybe it had just widened; our perspective and possibly even our forbearance had been altered by Dad's sudden illness.  I think we just thought that was the one-two punch that we just had to get through, that if we could rally and shore up, things would get better.  We had to think that way; it was the only thing keeping us from falling apart.

To Be Continued ... Not Knowing, Part 2

The Lives They Loved

Recently, The New York Times invited readers to send in a photo that illustrates a story of someone close to them who died this year.  Here's the story that resulted:

THE LIVES THEY LOVED - New York Times

What a cool feature.  It’s so hard to choose just one photo and just one story though, but here’s one that I’d like to add to the list:

This is a photo of my dad, William Lee Bullard, and my grandmother, Nellie Hine Bullard, both of whom died in 2011.  In the photo, they are standing in the library of the church that my grandmother attended for over 50 years.

My grandmother was a voracious reader.  She lived most of her life in a small town in Alabama, and I remember as a child hearing her say that, although she might not ever have to means or the opportunity to do much traveling, she planned to expand her horizons through reading.  To honor her work as a volunteer as the church librarian for decades, the library was dedicated to her and named after her a few years ago.

After her funeral, my family and I went back to her church where church members had prepared a fantastic meal for us.  I didn’t know most of the people in the dining hall that day, but I felt a connection to them based on the mutual love and respect they all had for my grandmother and many for my dad as well.  After the meal, we went upstairs to the library, and I opened several of the books on the shelves.  Behind each of the front covers was a pocket holding a library card on which Grandmom had written her name on the first line as she checked each one out to read over time.   Sticking out of the top of some of the books was a small piece of paper, and when I opened the books to investigate I saw that the papers were sticky notes from my dad’s office that he had given to Grandmom as part of her librarian supplies.  She’d used the sticky notes as bookmarks and had noted the date on each.  I love this picture because it makes me think about how supportive my dad was of the interests of his mother and of everyone else he knew and about her passion for service and for education, things that were both so exemplary of the people that they were.

Once More

You sat me on the rocking horse

And kneeled on the floor to the side.

I pretended I was a jockey in a race

And had a grin on my face so wide.

It’s ok, Dad, I said,

Now you can let go.
I’m ready, and you’ve taught me

Just what I need to know.

There in the front yard
Sitting proudly on my bike
A young girl’s first taste
Of what freedom’s really like

You ran along beside me
With one hand on the seat
I smiled and pedaled harder
And headed for the street.

It’s ok, Dad, I said,
Now you can let go.
I’m ready, and you’ve taught me
Just what I need to know. 

Walking behind you in the snow

I put my feet where yours had been

You reached back with your hand

To offer me your help

And to keep me on my feet

But I knew then that I could stand.

It’s ok, Dad, I said,

Now you can let go.
I’m ready, and you’ve taught me

Just what I need to know.

Almost to the aisle,
On my wedding day,
You looked at me and said,

I feel like there’s something I should say.

When the preacher asks
Who gives this woman
I know what to do
I’ll say the words
And then let go
But I’ll always be here for you.

It’s ok, Dad, I said,

Now you can let go.
I’m ready and you’ve taught me

Just what I need to know.

It was so hard to see
A man so strong
So fragile in the bed.
I lay down beside him
And put my head on his chest
And, once more, I said:

It’s ok, Dad, I said,

Now you can let go.
I’m ready and you’ve taught me

Just what I need to know.

The Writing on the Wall

One of the things I am asked most often about my dad’s illness is if he had any symptoms prior to the day of his fateful run.

As I’ve written in previous entries and as anyone who knew him was aware, Dad was a long-time competitive athlete who thrived on pushing himself to the limit (and sometimes beyond).  He had a very high threshold for pain, which sometimes did not serve him well as he did not always know when to call it quits.  

Dad, getting medical attention after running his fastest-ever time in a marathon

One thing about him I haven’t mentioned, though, and something about himself that he readily admitted was that he was fairly uncoordinated, a fact that was especially surprising considering he was such a talented athlete.  Maybe it was because of this clumsiness or because he was often in a hurry to get somewhere (he hated to be late!), or maybe it was because the amount of time he spent on the road on his bike or running upped his odds statistically of having accidents and mishaps, but either way it wasn’t that unusual for him to have a scraped-up knee or a bloody elbow from a spill that he had taken. 

Dad did have a wreck on his bicycle about a week before he was diagnosed that resulted in some pretty impressive Road Rash on his left knee, shoulder, and arm.  He had taken a spill with the bike tipping to the left side, which frustrated him so much that he had taken his bicycle to the shop the next day to get them to check it to see if it was out of balance.  As we found out a short while later, it was actually Dad who was out of balance; he had left-sided weakness due to the tumor in his brain.  However, at the time, he chalked up the wreck to something being wrong with his bike or to the usual stuff with him, not paying attention to what he was doing, being in a rush, being a bit of a klutz, and/or heat and fatigue due to a very intense training regiment.

Dad, taking an ice-pack break during an ultra-marathon (Note the supplies on the table.)

 Dad had entered three shorter distance triathlons last summer as part of his preparation for the Ironman Triathlon for which he was registered in November, and in all three he did not feel well at the finish, which a doctor who checked him out in between races attributed to heat exhaustion and dehydration.

 

He finished the last tune-up race in mid-August by staggering over the last mile of the run portion and then falling across the finish line, at which point Mom took him over to the first aid tent where he got some fluids and a stern lecture from the medics there about the dangers of dehydration.  They told him he absolutely had to drink at least 10 cups of water daily in the days leading up to a big race when the temperature and humidity were as high as they had been.  Apparently, after drinking some Gatorade in the tent, Dad perked up enough to jokingly ask one of the medics if beer counts as a fluid, which they did not find funny.  And, as was typical for him, despite the finish line drama, he won his age division in this race, too, which he felt was a good indicator that he was right on target in his training program to get ready for the Ironman.

Dad, after again pushing himself to the limit

 Even though Dad was bald-headed for decades, in personality he oftentimes functioned like a Dizzy Blond.  He had been known to pull up in a parking lot or driveway, put the car in park, get out, and come into the house or his office, all without noticing that he hadn’t turned off the engine of the car!  So, if he was doing things like entering the house without closing the front door behind him or losing his wallet, it wasn’t really something we noticed as a Red Flag because of his past actions.

In late August, my dad went to visit his mother, who was ill and living in a nursing home near my parents’ house.  Not long after he got back home, the telephone rang, and it was one of the nurses at the nursing home letting him know that he had left one of his shoes there.  Evidently, he walked out of it in the hallway of the nursing home and, without noticing, walked to his car in the parking lot and drove home.  Again, we chalked it up to Dad just being Dad, not paying attention and being in a hurry to get somewhere.

A few weeks later, Dad drove my mom and one of my sisters to a restaurant near my parents’ house.  It was pouring down rain, and so, after Dad parked the car in the parking lot, they ran from the car to the door of the restaurant.  Once they got inside, Mom noticed that Dad didn’t have a shoe on his left foot.  She pointed it out to him, and he ran back to the car and found his shoe there.  Again, something that might have been alarming for someone else, but not that out of character for Dad. 

According to the resources we were given on brain tumors, the first symptoms are usually things like headaches, blurred vision, memory loss, behavioral changes, or seizures, all of which can be attributed to increased pressure within the brain.  Other symptoms (depending on the location and size of the tumor) can be nausea, drowsiness, weakness or impairment in sensation on one side of the body, or language impairment.

Even with the 20/20 hindsight that we had once the diagnosis was made, of these, the only symptom that Dad had before the day his tumor was diagnosed was impaired sensation on the left side of his body.

Out on his run that day, he got disoriented and had trouble finding the words he needed to respond to questions he was being asked by people around him.  He was taken by ambulance to a local hospital, where a CT scan revealed a “large mass in his brain.”  He was then transferred by ambulance to a large teaching medical center with a Neuro-ICU, and, en route, he had his first seizure.  The paramedics stabilized him and got him to the second hospital, where the medical staff quickly took him to get an MRI; however, during the test he suffered a second seizure, stopped breathing, and had to be resuscitated and put on a ventilator to help him breathe.

Even once the diagnosis had been made and we had read all about the Warning Signs, we still weren’t able to see The Writing on the Wall; even looking back with 20/20 hindsight, we still couldn’t identify what went wrong and when it had begun. 

No headaches, vision changes, etc.  He was still functioning at his 100%, which was equivalent to most other people's 150%.  We later found a To-Do List in his home office and noticed a slight difference in the legibility of his handwriting, which might have been related to the tumor since he was left-handed.  His typical writing style was of the Chicken Scratch variety, though, and so, as much as the falls and forgetting of the shoe were hard to definitively identify as a symptom, it was even harder to connect those dots, even given what we knew.  Literally, there really was no discernible Writing on the Wall.

We were told by several of Dad’s doctors that the type of brain cancer he had is extremely fast-growing; in fact, this type of tumor usually doubles in size about every three weeks.  The doctors said that the tumor very likely started to grow just a few months before the diagnosis.

And, while it seems like it would be somewhat comforting for us to know that there was no chance for prophecy, there wasn’t something there that we missed, and there was essentially no opportunity for early detection, it really isn’t comforting, because nothing is.  The only thing I see written on the wall is that it sucks and it isn’t right or fair, and I want my dad back!

He Never, Ever Sat It Out

One of my earliest memories is dancing with my dad during the social hour at one of my dad’s business conventions. From the time my sisters and I were little, he let us take turns standing on top of his feet so that we could each get a chance to be his dancing partner. He was undeniably the life of the party at each of our weddings, cutting a rug and entertaining everyone there until the last note of the last song was played at our receptions.

Throughout his life, Dad never missed out on a chance to actively participate, to set goals for himself, or to live life to its fullest. When I hear the song “I Hope You Dance,” I think about how Dad didn’t need the advice that singer is giving out: he never lost his sense of wonder, never took one single breath for granted, never feared the mountains in the distance, never settled for the path of least resistance, and, most of all, he never, ever sat it out.

"I’ll Be in the Boat"

As anyone who ever knew him would attest, my dad was an exceptional athlete.  One of the goals he set for himself several summers was to swim across Lake George in upstate New York, a distance of about 2 miles, a swim that involved identifying a location on the shore across the lake and “siting” on that specific point while also watching out for ski boats, jet skiers, and sail boaters.


Because of the distance of the swim and the other traffic in the fairly rough water, each time Dad and any other family members or friends set out to do this swim, others of us provided a boat escort to keep the swimmers pointed in the right direction and to call the attention of other boaters to them in the water.

Dad loved doing this swim.  He liked the feeling of accomplishment and the bragging rights that came after he did it each time.  The fact that everyone else who ever completed the swim with him was half his age was icing on the cake for him.  

Following is an exchange that occurred during one of the many late night conversations that Dad wanted to have while he was sick as he mulled things over in his head:

“Girls?” Dad called out in the dark of the ICU room to be sure that my sister Jennifer and I, his Night Shift Crew that night, were listening.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“You know how I usually swim across the Lake George with Peter and Lee and Kristen while you are in the boat?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“I’m pretty sure I may not make it across again, but I’ll be in the boat.” 

Going On Ahead – Part One

The following is from the book On Grieving The Death of a Father, by Harold Ivan Smith:

I have long been impressed with the ability of death to make shambles of our carefully ordered priorities.  A single phone call – whether local or long distance – suddenly takes from us one whom we have known, loved, hated, touched, fed, hurt, surprised, photographed, cleaned up after, and bought presents for.  

One early morning phone call left me without a dad.  Without.  That word ricocheted through my heart.  

The phone rang.  A collect call from my niece.  No “How are you?” No “Sorry to be calling so early.”

“We’ve lost Paw-Paw,” she said.

I was annoyed.  “How could you lose Paw-Paw? He’s in Room 302 at Methodist Hospital,” I snapped.

“No,” she said. “We lost him.”

It hit me.  

The author goes on to say, “My father had died. That was the word I insisted on using.  That word had to be used.  Daddy was not ‘lost.’ Daddy had not ‘passed away.’ Daddy had not ‘expired.’ Daddy had died.”

Since my dad died, I have also held this sentiment and have often cringed when I’ve heard his death referred to in one of the many ways in which our society tends to classify it.

Two days before he was scheduled to get his third dose of chemotherapy, Dad ended up back in the hospital because of a severely compromised immune system; he had a raging fever, terrible pain in his head and neck, and such muscle weakness that he couldn’t even reposition himself in the bed or swallow.   At one point, he was given painkillers in an effort to both relieve his pain and allow him to get some much-needed rest.  My mom, my sisters, and I breathed a collective sigh of relief when, about 20 minutes after the medicine had been administered, Dad seemed to relax and closed his eyes to sleep.

When Dad woke up (i.e. when the medication wore off, about 3 hours later), he was wide-eyed and seemed shaken, and he told us that he had had a really bad dream in which he was about to die.  He said in the dream he was fighting and was so scared because he thought that if he died he would be lost and we wouldn’t be able to find him.  

We assured him that it was not his time and that the doctors had told us that they fully expected him to recover from the infection that was making him so sick.  

He had a similar dream about a week later, after which we again told him that he was going to get better, as we believed with 100% certainty at the time.  Dad talked many times about these dreams and how worried he was that if he did die that we wouldn’t be able to find him.  Every time he brought it up, he said, “I just don’t want to be lost!”

Despite predictions and promises made by many physicians in different specialty areas while Dad was in the hospital, he did not get better; in fact, he grew weaker by the day.   Between the time when we took him home with support from hospice on December 31 and the time that he died on Jan. 5, we told him many, many times that he had finished the race, that he had accomplished what he needed to do, and that we knew for sure where he was going and where to find him.  Even when he couldn’t say anything back, we kept telling him that he would not be lost and that we would know right were he was so that we could find him.  This message seemed to help him as he visibly relaxed when we said those words to him at the end.  

One of the things that was said to my family in the days of shock and chaos that followed Dad’s death was that Dad, in the same way he had done in the hundreds of races in which he had competed throughout his life, had “gone on ahead.”  

These words particularly rang true to me because Dad wasn’t just my father; he was my running partner and coach over the 30+ years that I have been running.  

Dad and I ran in over 100 races together, and, in each one, he finished before me and then ran back to find me on the course, to cheer me on and give me advice, especially if he saw me struggling.  Once he had seen that I was ok, he would run ahead to the finish line to wait there for me to make it in.  I like to think that he is doing that same thing right now, encouraging me on after he has gone on ahead.

And, as promised, he isn’t lost; we know right where to find him.

Words and Thoughts on Father's Day

                            CLICK HERE FOR MUSIC TO GO WITH THESE WORDS

"Father and Daughter" by Paul Simon (with my thoughts in blue)

If you leap awake in the mirror of a bad dream

And for a fraction of a second you can't remember where you are

( ... Every day I wish that someone would wake me up and tell me it was just a bad dream, that I can pick up the phone and hear your voice, that you didn't really have to go on ahead ... )

Just open your window and follow your memory upstream

To the meadow in the mountain where we counted every falling star

( ... I'm trying to stay focused on the many, many good memories that we have with you and to feel LUCKY just like you taught us ... )

I believe a light that shines on you will shine on you forever

And though I can't guarantee there's nothing scary hiding under your bed

I'm gonna stand guard like a postcard of a Golden Retriever

And never leave 'til I leave you with a sweet dream in your head

( ... I know you are still with us because we'll always have you in our hearts and in our memories, and I still feel you watching over us ... )

[Chorus:]

I'm gonna watch you shine

Gonna watch you grow

Gonna paint a sign

So you'll always know

As long as one and one is two

There could never be a father

Who loved his daughter more than I love you

Trust your intuition

It's just like goin' fishin'

You cast your line and hope you get a bite

But you don't need to waste your time

Worryin' about the market place

Try to help the human race

Struggling to survive its harshest night

( ... I remember how while you were sick you talked about how we all need to spend less time WORRYING and more time enjoying life and being with the ones we love ... )

I'm gonna watch you shine

Gonna watch you grow

Gonna paint a sign

So you'll always know

As long as one and one is two

There could never be a father

Who loved his daughter more than I love you

THANKS, DAD, FOR TEACHING ME SO MANY LESSONS OVER THE YEARS, EVEN AND SOMETIMES ESPECIALLY THE ONES YOU DIDN'T EVEN REALIZE YOU WERE TEACHING.  THANK YOU FOR PASSING ON YOUR PASSION AND YOUR PERSPECTIVE.  I MISS YOU SO MUCH EVERY DAY!