Parenting Solo

Another day to laugh, another chance to fish, with Dad

(First published June 16, 2002 in the Oakland Tribune.)

AS A COOL BREEZE tickled the tops of the tall pine trees, a gentle wake started across Mirror Lake, some 8,500 feet above sea level on the western edge of Colorado.

Forty yards away, I watched from the bank as my dad slowly paddled out in an innertube and began crisply waving his fly rod back and forth, the fly at the tip of the line snapping at each turn, until the fly rolled out and rested atop the water.

There wasn't another fisherman around for miles. We had this tiny portion of this glistening lake all to ourselves. I watched in awe, smiling at this wondrous sight. Nearby, my 14-year-old son was baiting his own hook.

What's the big deal? A lot of 73-year-old grandfathers, their middle-aged sons and the third-generation grandsons go fishing in the summer.

But just seven months before, my dad lay near death on a hospital bed after doctors removed a third of his cancerous left lung.

In December 2000, doctors found a spot on his lung from chest X-rays taken after he caught a cold that didn't go away. On Jan. 10, I got the news that it was malignant, and the next day I hastily flew from San Francisco to San Diego to see him after the four-hour surgery. By the time I got there, it was 11 at night and I had to sneak into the hospital, seven hours after the surgery.

There was Dad, this once-healthy and strong-as-an-ox farmer, who labored outdoors for more than 50 years, lying still, white as a ghost. The only way I knew he was alive was by watching his heart monitor. His breathing was agonizingly slow.

His nurse gave me the low-down on the success of the surgery, but the next two days would determine his recovery. I spent three days with him at Scripps Memorial Hospital in Point Loma.

When I looked up, his eyes were open and he was smiling. He painfully tried to speak a few words, but I knew he was just happy his youngest of three sons had finally arrived to be with him in the scariest time of his life. My mom and my two brothers were gone for the night, so I had my dad -- 73 at the time -- all to myself.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed. "How are you feeling?" I asked. Slowly, he said his chest hurt, naturally. He closed his eyes again and dozed off, the morphine drip taking its effect.

The next two days were up-and-down for him. I watched this will-o'- the-wisp of a man brought to his knees by a disease caused by 57 years of smoking. A simple cough to clear his lungs was excruciating for him. I hurt just watching him. An inch-thick tube drained blood from his back.

My mom and my brothers came and went throughout the day. While others in the intensive care unit seemed morbid and saddened by their tragedies, my family chose to laugh and be excited at the prospects of my dad's recovery. I'm sure some people must have thought we were insensitive or even cruel, but the laughter was brought on by the knowledge that we would see our dad and husband for another day.

In the week that I had to prepare myself for the worst, I had made my peace. Somehow, I always knew my dad's horrible habit would lead to this. If cancer was to take him, I had 42 awesome years with a great dad. He was always there for us three boys, whether watching all of us in 4-H, my oldest brother running track, my middle brother racing motorcycles or me wrestling. No one sat near my dad when I wrestled, because his voice boomed across the gymnasium: "Come on, Doug! Pin him!"

Everyone who knows Ted Mead knows he is a man of faith who lives a simple life. He isn't preachy; he just tries to live every day with integrity. He was caring and considerate of others, always friendly, even though he preferred keeping to himself.

If I had any reservations about him dying, it was that my teen-age son wouldn't have nearly enough time to get to know my dad the way his family and friends did.

He wouldn't leave a lot of money or a business legacy behind, but he would leave behind a life that few could criticize or question. He was a good husband, father and grandfather, a good friend, a good employer, a good employee.

Dad's recovery was slow, made even more difficult because he had knee replacement surgery a month before, making walking painful.

I was stuck hundreds of miles away and unable to visit with him as I wanted to. I set my sights on August, when my son, Matt, and I would fly to Colorado to fish with my dad. I took a chance that he would be strong enough. It was a tradition we had started seven years before. Three generations of Meads fishing on a crystal-clear lake high in the Rockies.

In late July, the doctor gave a hesitant OK for Dad to drive with my mom to Colorado, a 14-hour trek to be made in a two-day stretch.

Matt and I flew and drove for two days to reach our destination, my aunt's rustic cabin in a canyon near Gunnison. When we arrived, I hugged my dad tightly and cried, a happy cry.

The next day, we rose early and went fishing. Just the men. Dad wasn't strong enough to be able to fish by himself. It didn't matter to me whether I caught a fish. I was watching my dad stroke his fly rod back and forth and cast on a ripple made by a rising trout.

When he pulled in his first rainbow trout a few minutes later, I cheered from the bank. "Way to go, Pop." Ten inches may not win any prizes, but to me, he was a trophy.

By the time we left five days later, my dad led the way with more than 20 fish caught; eight kept for our Friday feast. Matthew caught 11 and we kept six. I brought up the rear with nary a fish in my creel.

It didn't matter. In my eyes, fishing with my dad and my son was the limit in life. My dad was alive and fishing with us again.

When we left the next morning, I looked my dad in the eye and told him, "You're a terrific dad, and I love you." He told me I was a pretty terrific son myself. We embraced tightly. I didn't want to let go. I was crying, and this time, he was, too.

As I drove off, I said a silent prayer. "Please God, can I go fishing with my dad, just one more time? And maybe next year, I can catch a fish, too?"

Doug Mead can be reached by e-mail at doug@parentingsolo.com.

posted by parentingsolo @ 3:54 PM