Eight years ago today I was awakened at 5am by the sharp
ring of my cell phone. I knew what had happened before a single word was
spoken, before I even saw the number on the Caller ID. My father had died.
The minutes and hours that followed were perhaps not what
one might expect for a young woman in my situation. Brush teeth, contacts in,
drive 30 miles to meet my mom at what seemed like the 15th nursing
home/hospital I’d visited in the recent months. See him for the very last time.
All without a single tear. Why? Because I had been conditioned for this.
To characterize my father with descriptive words or traits
wouldn’t really be appropriate. He wasn’t as much a collection of vibrant and noticeable
qualities as he was a subtle absence of all of the attributes he didn’t care to
embody. He wasn’t quiet, he just wasn’t outspoken. He wasn’t cold, he just wasn’t
affectionate.
And although he would hate to be described as such, he was a
diabetic and a Vietnam Vet. Sadly, he was the former because he was the latter.
A lifelong athlete and lover of the outdoors, his Type II Diabetes did not
resemble the more modern, obesity-induced, “reap what you sow” affliction. Exposure
to Agent Orange was the more likely culprit. He battled to various degrees for
much of my life and by the end, after countless surgeries and hospitals stays, had lost both of his legs and his nearly all of
his vision. He was 55.
He forced me into independence practically from birth, always
preparing me to stand on my own two feet. I was allowed to roam and explore
much farther than other kids my age, but if I got myself into trouble, I had to
get myself out of it. He didn't hug me or say 'I love you', he didn't participate in my activities or come to my games, he didn't even go to my college graduation. I never felt, and still don't, that this was because he didn't care or because he didn't love me. I believe it was because he thought the best thing he could do for me was to prepare me for a life without him.
As athletes we progress. We condition. The threshold of the pain, endurance, and exhaustion that we're able to tolerate extends. Callouses break at 75 pullups where they used to break at 10. Knees hurt at mile 13 when they used to buckle at mile 3. In the beginning it's always difficult to imagine ourselves stronger, to imagine throwing harder, running farther, or lifting heavier. Yet once we get there--stronger-- its usually more difficult to remember our weaker selves.
It is difficult for me to imagine myself as anyone who was not made strong by her father, by his influence and by being a young spectator of his painful journey. He conditioned me. For loss and disappointment, for struggle, for conquering the things you think may break you. For crediting no one but yourself for your successes, and for holding no one but yourself responsible for your failures. Despite all that's happened before and since his death, I wouldn't change any of it. And something tells me neither would he.
*"Anguish" - completed upon my dad's return from Vietnam and reentry into civilian life in the 1970s. Original artwork remains a part of the National Veterans Art Museum's permanent collection in Chicago. It was also included in The Twins Platoon: An Epic Story of Young Marines at War in Vietnam by Christy W. Sauro Jr.
