Even though things weren’t always perfect in my home, I somehow
thought they were. I was a kid after all. I had nothing to compare it with. What
else did I know? How would I know that other dad’s didn’t drink, fall down drunk,
and take off for weeks without being heard from?
Mom standing by the front blinds at night watching for Dad
to come home was a familiar sight to me. It was my normal. And sooner or later,
he came back. All was well then. Dad was the one I knew from afar, sleeping all
day and then dressing in a hurry at 4 in the afternoon to be at his nightclub
by 5, while Mom was our anchor—stable and always home. It’s just how things
worked at our house. I was happy. And to top it all off, after we moved to
Delavan, I had friends, good grades and life was good.
We joined the Delavan Methodist Church. My favorite stained
glass window was of Jesus carrying the lost lamb on his shoulders. Jesus. I
loved Him. I did this thing at church where I kept track of how many times in a
sermon the minister mentioned Jesus. He was good. He could go months without
mentioning God or Jesus, which irritated me. A few years later, the
congregation was gifted with a new minister; Rev. Hinkleman and his wife and
three children.
For some wonderful unexplainable reason our family instantly
bonded with them. Even Dad did, a total non believer. (And Rev H mentioned God
and Jesus in every sermon until there was no longer need for me to count.)
By now Dad had
developed aggressive cancer and spent more time in the hospital than at home. The
entire Hinkleman family stood by us offering emotional support. We visited back
and forth and soon they were not only the spiritual leaders of our church, but
dear friends.
No longer able to work or walk, it seemed as though Dad
stayed at the hospital more than he stayed (bedridden) at home. He was no longer
addicted to alcohol. He was really addicted to pain meds particularly morphine.
It wasn’t unusual for Dad to be up all night crying out in pain. During these
times I didn’t have anyone over. It was a private family matter. Mom would sit
with Dad during the night but it was difficult when she had to be up during the
day to see to us three kids. Then Rev H and Gordon Yadon (town historian and
postmaster) came to the rescue. They took turns sitting with Dad at night so
mom could rest. Rev H read the Bible to Dad and Gordon discussed history.
By this time I was in high school and knew since middle
school it was unusual for my dad to be like he was. I found out most dads
played with their kids, did things with them, went to see them perform in plays,
attended school conferences, interacted with them. None of this happened
between us. Yet I loved him. Dad had these beautiful blue eyes that smiled at
me. They spoke volumes. I felt his love. It filled the room when we were
together and it was enough.
One evening when Dad was at the hospital, the Hinklemans
came for dinner. They knocked on the garage door, the place all good friends
knocked. Karen, my older sis, my mom, my younger brother Russ and I, all stood
at the backdoor taking deep breaths.
Mom said, “Okay they are a demonstrative family and will hug
us when they come in so brace yourselves.” We made a collective sigh and stiffened
more with each embrace. Today I laugh at that memory. I also find it odd that
we considered a hug would be odd. To me it’s normal. I have become a hugger. A
bear hugger. I also tell people I love them all the time. It’s who I am today.
I wear my feelings on my face and my heart on my sleeve. It’s
the only way I can be.
Several months later, I was called out of school. Dad was dying.
I was to pick my brother up from his school and Karen was on her way home from
Chicago. Hurry. You can know the year, month, day, hour, second someone will
pass from your life but it’s always a surprise when it arrives.
Russell and I arrived in Dad’s private room. Mom sat waiting
for her children to gather. Two thirds of us were now there. Karen was still to
arrive. Dad was barely awake, had a breathing tube in but couldn’t speak. I
stood over his bed and took his hand in mine. I looked into those watery blue
eyes I loved so very much knowing time was limited of ever seeing them again.
How would I manage that? Then he smiled at me.
Russ was upset and left the room.
All of a sudden I knew I had to tell him that I loved him.
What possessed me to have withheld those words from him for so long? Wouldn’t he
have enjoyed hearing his daughter tell him, “I love you” ?
I turned to Mom. “Would you leave the room for a little
while?” I whispered. She hugged me and left to find Russ.
I turned back toward Dad. His eyes now closed. “Dad.”
His eyes fluttered open.
“I have something to tell you.” My heart beat so rapidly I
could hardly catch a breath but I had to, needed to tell him how I loved him
before time took him from me and all I had were memories. And regret.
He looked weakly into my face.
“I love you Dad. I love you with all my heart.”
Those big blues widened. Filled with tears. He opened his
lips trying to speak haltingly, trying to make a sound. But none came. Only
gurgling from his throat. The oxygen machine whooshed. Wouldn’t it have been lovelier
to have told him that I loved him when we were watching a storm come in off the
lake, or during a commercial on TV, or riding in a car together? It would have
made a perfect birthday gift. Better than a tie or another sweater.
I knew what he was trying to say. He was trying to say he
loved me too. “I know you love me Dad. I have always known.”
Satisfied I understood, he settled back into the pillow and
closed his eyes.
And then I wondered, why do we wait to tell someone how much
they mean to us? Why do we wait to send someone flowers until they die? Why do we
allow minutes, hours, weeks, months, maybe years pass before we reach out to
someone who means so much to us? The Bible says no man is promised tomorrow. We
have only this moment to say, “I love you.” Take this moment. Use it.
Are you waiting for someone to tell you they love you? They
ache to hear these words.
From that day, to this, I never spoke with my mom without
saying, “I love you.” I told my children every day until they left home that I
loved them, and now whenever we speak, or see one another. It’s natural to us. We
hug, we kiss. It’s the only way to be.
And so, I leave you with this song.
No comments:
Post a Comment