 |
My dad was difficult. I can't say we ever had a great relationship, but not for lack of trying. We saw in each other the parts of ourselves we didn't like - or just didn't know how to handle. Contrary to popular myth, dad wasn't a saint. He could be a sonofabitch. His own mother, who loved him dearly, would tell you the same thing. She often just didn't understand him. Sure, he saved a lot of people's lives, and kept many more going well past their sell-by date - but he wasn't a saint. Really, none of us are.
My dad was short-tempered. He could be violent. He was a typical only child and product of his time. He grew up in a very working-class household and strived for what he considered a better life. How that translated to moving to Steubenville, OH I'll never understand.
Actually, I do - but that's a conversation for a different time.
As it's Father's Day, allow me to focus on dad's good side. He could never be accused of not being hard working. He often put in 16 hour days 7 days a week. We might see him briefly at dinner, but even then, the phone would ring and he'd be talking to someone about a patient's emergent health crisis. Weekends and holidays he was almost always on-call. Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays - the phone would ring and off he'd go. We might see him later. Might not. This was just normal for our household. Didn't mean we liked it - but at the heart of it, we knew he was trying to save someone's life. I can never fault him for that.
Dad had a weird, eclectic taste in music - which he passed on to me. He had all sorts of oddball folk music records in his collection; not just American folk but Gaelic, Celtic, and even some Balkan stuff, which as we all know I fell in love with.
Music was a given in our house. We all had an instrument. We all studied piano, however briefly. Dad understood that studying music helped to develop the brain. I took to it like a duck to water. I started to teach myself piano before I could read. Formal lessons felt like a punishment to me. This happened with every instrument I tried. I'd advance well past what I was being taught, then I was told I was wrong for doing so. Problematic? Yeah, just a bit. But dad, in his own way, always encouraged me. His instrument of choice was the banjo - which believe me, was as painful as it sounds. He could play some rudimentary guitar and had learned to sight-read music well enough to play piano pretty decently.
Dad loved books. I fondly remember a conversation we had about 20 years ago. He told me that he always wanted to write 'the great American novel'. I asked what was stopping him. I pointed to my own success in music - of which he was proud of. I had been touring other countries and doing well at it. I was writing a lot of music, recording, and doing it all my way. I told him that if he wanted to write, just sit down and do it. It was the only way it would ever happen. Sadly, I don't think he ever did.
Dad had a sense of humor. Some days, we had to dig deep to bring it to the surface, but it was there. Of the many things I inherited from the old man, I have his laugh. A former girlfriend of mine just thought it was eerie how similar it was. Then there was the stammer. We both had it. The same girlfriend called it "stereo stuttering" if Dad and I were having a conversation.
Dad loved all 4 of us kids, but he had difficulty showing it. Being an only child, there were simply certain skills he never learned. He was more of a 'tough love' kind of parent. Unfortunately, his brand of tough love often left bruises and scars. But if I'm being honest, if he didn't care he never would have acted on our perceived transgressions.
Like many, Dad was a deeply spiritual man, but he spent decades trying to find a church he felt comfortable in. As a minister, we had a number of discussions on the subject. I know why he had these difficulties, and I can only hope he made peace with them before he died. Our parents grew up in different churches, which was mildly scandalous when they married back in the 50s. So, church wasn't part of our life. The decision on religion, church, etc. was left to us. If we were interested, we could follow. We were never pushed one way or the other. In my view, this was the most honest approach. Faith should be genuine, not an expectation.
Our family life was rarely peaceful. A lot of this can probably be attributed to dad's difficulties in processing the world around him. The logic of medicine was how he viewed the world, and that particular logic rarely translates to the real world. I never understood how my parents got together in the first place. Dad was weirdly robotic, a spoiled child who was accustomed to a certain way of life. Mom was an artist and musician - and a twin. Her family was technically a little lower on the social scale than dad's but still working class. Dad's goal of climbing his perceived social ladder, common at the time, I think created certain tensions.
Dad had a petty streak, no doubt there. His mother and relatives all often complained to him about it. But again, his singular self-assuredness made it impossible for him to see a different point of view. Family arguments that would be a trifle in most households begat lifelong grudges for dad. This, to me, was the saddest thing about his life. He lost out on so much due to it.
The last time I saw my dad, he was in a hospital bed. It was odd seeing him there, barely able to stand on his own two feet. The last thing either of us said to the other was "I love you". It was genuine. We both knew it was probably the last time we'd see each other.
His funeral was not what I expected. The turnout was mostly work colleagues. The man they knew was only a fraction of who my dad was. What struck me most was the lack of tears. Yes, my stepmother cried - but hers were the only ones I saw. It felt like she had concocted her idea of his legacy. She attempted to make a big deal of my father's brief time in the military. He was an army doctor, therefore a captain. In our military, holding a professional doctorate degree is enough to earn the rank of officer. The stories we heard growing up, his time in the Army was more of an occupational annoyance than patriotism. My favorite story of dad's Army days took place in San Antonio, Texas. Dad told the story often, and I hold on to this story. It shows him being humbled by the facts and logic he so dearly lived by.
Dad was entering the latrine when a young man on guard duty suggested his sandals weren't optimal for the latrine. Dad, in his raging glory as an officer began to berate the young guard. The young man proceeded to explain, and then show, the reason for his query. SCORPIONS. The latrine was rife with them. The young man was going above and beyond to show concern for this young Captain Doctor. Dad immediately apologized and thanked the young man, then went to get his boots.
Throughout my life, if I encountered dad having a raging moment, feeling above someone, I would simply say "Scorpions, cap'n". Almost always, it clicked and he would bring his tone down.
Yes, dad was a difficult man. But I loved him anyway. He was my father, and thanks to the wonders of genetics, parts of him live on in me. And - this is the part to remember - should a time come when I feel like raging and lording above someone, I try to make myself remember one single word:
SCORPIONs
Yes, dad was a highly respected cardiologist. He had a wonderful career. Yes, he was many things to many people. He had successes as well as failures, as we all do. Honestly, I think he would've been mildly embarrassed by the honor guard at his funeral. He wasn't Patton. He didn't lead troops into battle. He was an army doctor at a base in San Antonio. His biggest battle was probably trying to lower the cholesterol of the top brass. Mind you, no easy feat! But here is where he and I differ.
In my worldview, pride is a sin. My great auntie always taught me that we do right because it IS right. There is no greater reason to do anything.
Happy Father's Day to all of the dads out there. Remember, no one is perfect. Honesty and humility will serve you better than ego and pride, no matter how wonderful you might be. Teach your children to be the best they can be.
Comments
Post a Comment