During the two weeks my dad spent in the hospital, my mom and I were blessed to have the support of so many people in so many ways. When we sat in the ICU waiting room, friends and family sat with us. When we prayed, whole churches and synagogues prayed with us. When we needed food, it arrived as manna from heaven, carried in the arms of neighbors. As my dad used to say, we now have more containers of food at our house than Carter has pills. This afternoon, we should approach that food as my dad would have: eat a lot, very quickly, and then wash all the dishes so my mom and I don’t have to.
On Saturday, just before my dad passed, my mom and I discussed the impact that this emotional, spiritual and edible support had had, not just on us, but on my dad’s care. Even if the doctors and nurses in the ICU – who deserve more praise, recognition and thanks than I know how to express – Even if they hadn’t had the chance to meet my dad before he came in for surgery, then surely they knew him by now. They may not have heard him speak, and some didn’t get to see his eyebrows dance across his forehead. But they came to know him through us, through our constant, zealous support and get-well vibes - and we believe that this experience translated into better, more emotionally-invested treatment. They knew he loved the Eagles, they knew he was a hard worker. They knew his sense of humor and his grace and his intelligence. They knew his style, from his super big glasses. And they knew his love for us, by the way he blew kisses at my mom and mouthed the words, “I love you.”
It’s amazing, all the things that those unfamiliar doctors and nurses could learn about him in two weeks. And yet, despite having a great relationship with my dad, there are many things about him that I do not know. What did he want to be when he was a kid? What was his favorite color? Who did he take to the senior prom? How did he decide my mom was the woman he wanted to be with for the rest of his life? Actually, my dad told me he never dated before he met my mom, but after seeing him in the hospital without his mustache, I can’t believe that.
We never talked about love, the birds and the bees, or any of that mushy stuff. Instead, when two characters in a movie leaned in for a climactic kiss, my dad would cover his eyes and yell, “Ewww!” or, later on, [in a fake accent] “Gimme little kiss.” Looking back on this apparent immaturity, I see it instead as a form of measured protection. My dad, more than anyone else I know, recognized the importance of childhood; he developed it into a timeless art. Don’t think for a second he ever shirked a responsibility: he loved to iron and work long hours, take leadership positions and serve his community. But he never abandoned the innocence, wonder, spontaneity and creativity I now imagine he had at age 10.
Dad sang to wake me up every morning, sang to change my diaper and potty train me, sang to my stuffed animals and sang to the dog. His love of music became my love of music. His playfulness, his wry, sometimes inscrutable and always corny humor became mine. His toys are now mine, and his delight in taking those toys out –with me, with his nieces and nephews, and especially with his great-nephews – is a legacy I can’t wait to carry on. Dad perfected the balance between childhood and adulthood, taking the best qualities of each age and transmitting them unsullied by the demands and distractions of everyday life. That balance, and the example he set, is his legacy, not just to me, but to us all.
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