My dad’s been on my mind a lot lately. It’s probably because his viewpoints differed from mine on many things. But I could always trust him to have a respectful dialogue about politics. He died about five weeks after the 2020 election. I wonder what he’d say about everything that’s happened since January 6th, 2021.
Thanks for reading my musings and supporting me.
“You’re my daughter,” he said when his eyes found mine.
He looked confused. His eyes were cloudy with cataracts. His skin was pale, and his lips were peeling.
My father was dying. He almost left this world several times before, but there was no doubt this time. The hospice nurse agreed.
“Yes, I am, and Janis is here too,” I replied.
He turned his head to see my sister on the other side of the bed. My mother and two of my brothers had gone to the other room with the laptop. We’d just been on Zoom with my other two brothers and many grandchildren so everyone could say goodbye.
It was a cold day in December 2020, just six days after I turned 63. I’d hoped he wouldn’t die on my birthday. He’d already been gone for so many of them.
My father was a retired neurologist who practiced medicine for over fifty years. During his postdoctoral training at New York Hospital, Cornell Medical Center, he completed an internship in medicine (1953), a residency in internal medicine (1955), and a second residency in neurology (1957). After moving to Maryland, he completed a fellowship in neurology at the National Institutes of Health in 1958. He was then hired by the Cleveland Clinic and moved the family to Shaker Heights, Ohio. He stayed there until 1969 when he and my mother decided to move to Virginia because they thought it was a better place to raise kids. At that point, there were five of us.
Our family’s first stop was Roanoke, where Dad started a private practice. He was the only neurologist in the area, and he believed this would help him build his business. But Roanoke wasn’t a very friendly place, so we moved again and, this time, settled in Midlothian, Virginia.
Now, my 96-year-old father was lying in a hospital bed in the dining room of the house where he’d lived for 47 years. And he was dying.
I wasn’t very close with my dad. I was the fourth child born during the hectic years of his internships and residencies. He worked all the time and traveled when he wasn’t at the office or a hospital. He didn’t have time to pamper or spoil his children.
My dad attended many medical conferences, was well respected by his peers, and held positions on many councils and associations. We saw him even less when he was president of the American Academy of Neurology.
After my mother died, we were cleaning out old photo albums when we found hundreds of pictures from medical conferences. Dad must have loved that part of his career. He was a people person and could float through a room with the confidence of a seasoned politician.
When I was growing up, Dad was rarely home for my birthday because there was an annual conference in New York City during the first week of December. When I was little, he’d bring me home a souvenir if he remembered.
The year we moved to Midlothian was particularly difficult. My parents had decided to leave Roanoke quickly, and money was tight. But Dad still went to New York for his annual trip. I don’t remember getting much for my birthday that year except a promise from Dad to take me with him when I turned 18.
My eighteenth birthday occurred during my senior year in high school. I worked part-time at a boutique called La Vogue and put several outfits on layaway. As the date approached, I worked extra shifts to pay off my New York clothes.
The funny thing is I can’t remember how we got there. I don’t think we drove. Maybe we took the train, which would make sense. Or perhaps I didn’t go the whole week and met him up there. I vaguely remember Grand Central Station, but I’ve been there several times, and my recollection could be mixed up.
We stayed in a hotel in Tudor Village. My father loved it there because it was near the United Nations. What I remember most about the hotel was how small the rooms were. The beds were so close you had to walk between them sideways, and Dad snored loudly.
He had meetings during the day, so I was left alone to explore the city. I window-shopped on Fifth Avenue, went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and looked at the city from the top of the Empire State Building. After sightseeing on the first day in fashionable platform shoes, I shopped for better footwear.
One night, we went to Radio City to see the Rockettes Christmas Show. I thought it was silly because they did a weird nativity, but the dancers were impressive, dressed up like giant candy canes. After the show, they played a movie. It was “The Sunshine Boys” with Walter Matthau and George Burns. Dad loved it. I fell asleep.
The next night was my birthday, so we went to a French restaurant. It was the first time I ate escargot. I liked the garlic butter and bread, but the snails were weird. The best part about the evening was I got to have wine. This wasn’t my first drinking experience, but I was more familiar with Miller beer and Boones Farm.
At the end of the meal, I went to the restroom, and when I returned, two women were sitting at our table talking to Dad. As I sat down, I saw one of the women hand my dad a slip of paper and leave, saying, “I hope to see you there.”
Dad had a funny smile as he watched the women walk away.
“Those ladies thought you were my young girlfriend,” he said as he laughed.
I was horrified, and it probably showed on my face.
“Don’t worry, I set them straight, but they still wanted us to come to their party,” he continued.
I was a little drunk and thought it would be fun to go to a party. But Dad disagreed, and we returned to the hotel, where I threw up all the fancy French food I’d eaten.
The weirdest thing is the same thing happened about forty years later when I was at an Irish Pub in NYC with my son Eric. I returned from the restroom and found two men at the table talking to Eric, and he was laughing. I guess no one noticed the family resemblance. People in New York must love May/December romances.
I wish the trip brought my father and me closer, but nothing changed. The following year, I went to college and saw him even less. When I graduated, Dad handed me a check telling me not to move back home.
A couple of years later, I was renting a house near one of the hospitals where Dad saw patients. At the time, I worked as a bartender and had strange hours. Around noon, I woke up to loud knocks on the front door and a crash of breaking glass.
When I arrived, my dad stood on the front porch holding a toaster oven, looking embarrassed. The door of the oven had fallen on the steps and shattered. “We had an extra one, so I thought you could use this. But now it’s ruined,” he said.
If we had been the kind of family that hugged, I would have put my arms around him. Instead, we just stood there, feeling awkward.
“I’ll see if I can find a new door at a yard sale,” I said. “Would you like to come in for coffee?”
“No, no, I need to get back to the office,” he replied, handing me the appliance.
I was glad he said no because I had no idea how to converse with him. Except for the trip to New York, we rarely hung out. I had disappointed him many times, and he disapproved of my line of work. I was afraid we’d sit there and listen to the tick-tock of the clock until it was an acceptable time to break off in our own directions.
Now I was standing next to his bed as he lay dying and memories from childhood started to invade my brain. I especially remember one winter when he built a boat in the garage in Cleveland. He let me help by giving me a piece of sandpaper on a block to smooth the hull between layers of paint.
Janis and I began to talk about how much we loved sailing with him. We shared our memories of the happy times. Dad smiled and kept looking at us as we spoke like he was watching a tennis match.
There was a flutter outside the window. My brother had moved the feeder a few days ago so Dad could see the birds. Now, a couple of cardinals were fighting over a perch. The three of us laughed.
When it was time for me to leave, I kissed my father’s forehead and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of Mom.”
Dad smiled and nodded.
I lived about an hour and a half from my parent’s house and don’t remember why I had to go home that night. But I do remember crying the whole drive. I’d just walked in the door when my phone rang.
Dad was gone.
Our last conversation may have been my favorite one. There was no agenda. I wasn’t worried about what he thought about my point of view. I didn’t have to try to get his attention. His eyes focused on me with recognition.
He knew I was his daughter, and I loved him.
This was a wonderful honesty in this story about your Dad. Thank you, Karen.
Thanks again for sharing your story.. I know I have similar stories inside of me .. sending you love and appreciation for sharing yours ❤️