My Father's Day

Well… It took me until 4:33PM, on this day that we recognize as “Fathers’ Day”, to get myself to the point where I can sit at the keyboard and deliver the thoughts that had me looking through tears as I delivered this morning’s newspapers. The source of the tears? An image. A clear recollection of Dad’s eyes on the occasion of our last exchange between each other.

As some of you already know, Dad died at 3:05PM, Sunday, 05 May 06. But the image that visited me this Fathers’ Day morning was from a moment when I was massaging Dad’s leg to help him deal with a severe pain spasm. We were, with Linda my sister, in a hospital room and Dad had been suffering terribly with those seizures of abdominal pain. To lessen the pain and reassure Dad that he was not alone in his struggle, I employed a technique learned in assisting the mother of my children with her child-deliveries.

As I talked Dad through each spasm and increased the intensity of massage to suit the pain’s demand, Dad looked through the fog of Alzheimer’s power and actually smiled at me in a rare moment of clarity. Though he could not speak, his eyes communicated volumes. Then, as the medications took hold and the intensity of the pain was mitigated, I started to withdraw my hand. Dad grabbed my retreating fingers and squeezed them with a ferocity that demanded attention. Upon looking into his eyes, I saw an eloquence in them that spoke with such clarity that I responded “I know Dad… Me too.” Again, he smiled… a sweet, calm, and tender smile that, in harmony with his gaze, spoke to my soul. “I love you too Daddy… I will be here and see you tomorrow.” He squeezed an acknowledgement… then released my fingers.

That was the last time that Dad and I communicated. And it was that face that visited me this morning. So, why tell you about this? Because my life is dedicated to urgently encouraging you to adopt a life practice of recognizing, respecting, honoring, and communicating your deepest emotions to those to whom that communication will have life-enhancing value. You see, my dad did not know how to do that. He was raised by a father (his Mom died when he was young) who demanded a denial of all emotion (save anger) and had a cruel disdain for sentiment. Dad never learned how to deal with his emotions. It was only in his last couple of years that he slowly allowed himself to respond to my unrelenting expressions of love for him. Culminating with the moment just recounted.

I want more for you, Dear Reader. I want more for those who look to you for instruction in healthy emotional living. I want more for those who have an unceasing hunger for your love and are crippled in their own emotional health by an absence of your assurances of affection. I want this because I lived for sixty years with a dad who had those emotions and sentiments caged within himself and was frustrated and vexed with his inability to release them. Dad would enthusiastically endorse my entreaty to you to take all possible measures to
“Know Thy [emotional] Self.”

The only thing you take with you when you're gone is what you leave behind.
John Allston