Thanks, Daddy – For Being Perfectly Imperfect!

As I’ve said before, I don’t talk about my dad that much because I wasn’t lucky enough to caregive for him. That’s because he passed away at just 58 years old. But as I reflected, I remembered a few things that I think I’ve effectively blocked out, until now.

The main memories that surfaced in this last round of reflection revolve around the very serious health issues my Dad struggled with from around the time he was 35 years of age (I would’ve been 12). Specifically, he experienced chronic back problems resulting from slipped discs and pinched nerves. These were presumably from either a football or sledding accident in his late teens - I remember hearing the adults talk about it, and I remember he had an awesome scar on one knee from a previous operation, though I cannot remember which leg it was.

The memories are blurred of that time over the course of the two years when Daddy underwent a series of surgeries to remove, fuse and otherwise try to correct the disc-and-pinched-nerve issues. I can recall visiting the hospital and being responsible for keeping my younger sisters quiet. I can also recall the light greenish-color of the institutional walls, the “hospital smells,” and the terror of seeing my big, strapping father lying helpless in the hospital bed in a horrible medieval-like contraption the adults called “traction.”

I can also recall the hushed whispers of some, saying “it might be all in his head” (REALLY?!?!?) … and the financial devastation that the situation brought upon our family, ultimately destroying my parents’ marriage, even though they truly loved each other.

In the aftermath, my Dad suffered from chronic, crippling back pain for the rest of his life – 20+ years. I also remember one incident in which he literally crawled into a chiropractor … and came out walking.

I can see MANY possible impacts on me, not the least of which is my tendency to mistrust traditional medicine in deference to alternative medicine. But I digress.

Daddy’s dogged determination to plow through every day despite his pain was admirable – and this, too was a valuable lesson. This was way before opioids - so whiskey worked well.

The psychological impact of having such terrible pain in his daily life surely caused clinical depression (but of course, we didn’t talk about THAT back then!). Suck it up, Buttercup! I feel certain that all he endured was a factor in shortening his life – but then, I’m not a Doctor.

The courage with which he faced every day despite the physical and emotional pain he must have been struggling with is pretty remarkable. As was the way he found a way to give us, his children, a positive attitude and chance in life despite what was happening to him.

As I’ve mentioned, he and my mom had wanted three boys, and gave up after having me and my two sisters. I wouldn’t say that Daddy celebrated strong feminist values (he couldn’t stand Jane Fonda - so much so that we dared not mention her name for fear of having to listen to a 2-hour diatribe), BUT when it came to US, his three girls, he was always our biggest champion.

His lessons have more than stood the test of time for me:

Don't be a quitter

Don’t make the same mistake twice

You can do anything you put your mind to

Wrapping these up with his overarching ideas of counting your blessings, believing in yourself, and living boldly, I’d say my Dad did a pretty darned good job of teaching us to take risks.

Daddy embodied the word authenticity. To me, the flagrant use of that word today refers to cheap substitutes when compared to him and his integrity. He told it like it was, stood for what he believed in, and absolutely did the best he could while he was here on this planet.

He was funny, and could always make us laugh out loud even in the worst of situations. He was strong willed, with a clear point of view all his own. He was unabashedly himself no matter what. I miss him so!