Parenting Solo

Laughter and survival -- a father's legacy

(First published September 4, 2004 in the Oakland Tribune.)

WHEN MY SON, Matt, and I were renting a car at the Ontario airport, the clerk told us we could have a convertible for an extra $10 a day. The smile on Matt's face gave me his answer.

It was a mini-vacation, and I decided to splurge. We quickly put the top down. For all of two minutes. A temperature of 106 will do that to you.

“Now we know why the convertible was so cheap," Matt said, laughing at the thought of having the top down and the air conditioner blowing full-blast.

It was a four-hour drive to my parents' house. For five days, we would visit my family. The road from Ontario to Yuma, Ariz., where I grew up, was desolate. Before long my lanky 17-year-old was curled up in a fetal position in the passenger seat.

I turned off the radio and enjoyed the solitude, until the weekend's magnitude hit me. I wiped away tears as I drove.

This was not like any of the journeys I've made home since leaving 25 years ago. I was dealing with emotions I did not want to face. My dad has been battling lung cancer for the past 31/2 years. He had surgery for colon cancer in June, and now has two new malignant tumors near his windpipe.

Once home, the requisite hugs began. When I got to my dad, I embraced him tightly and held him in my arms, the way he used to hold me as a boy. He grabbed me back with the strength of his many years of farm labor.

I whispered in his ear, "I love you, Pop." I began to cry again. "You've been a great dad to me," I said, looking him in the eye.

"I love you, too, son."

He had decided not to start chemotherapy until after our visit, and I planned to go with him to see the oncologist.

My dad is slowly dying, and we are all feeling his pain. It may be six months, it may be three years. The strapping farmer I had grown up admiring is seeing his body destroyed by the ravages of 55 years of smoking. He coughed much of the weekend.

While Matt was off visiting cousins, I spent as much time with my dad as possible. The Olympics were on the agenda, and we watched whatever appealed to him.

This isn't one of those stories lamenting what my dad did not do for me. He has been a model dad from the day my oldest brother was born 52 years ago. He's been a great husband to my mom for 53 years.

My parents rarely missed any events we three boys participated in. It wasn't unusual for my dad to drive a group of us 10 hours to a wrestling meet.

I learned to be a dad from my dad. He taught me the word "commitment." I learned a solid work ethic from him, which I passed on to Matt, who worked three jobs this summer.

The one thing my family possesses that keeps us going through Dad's illness is our ability to laugh. When we all got together at my brother's house, laughter rang out, from my dad, the oldest at 76, to my 11-month-old nephew, Brady.

Matt, too, has a great sense of humor. Through the turmoil of his mother's and my divorce 11 years ago, to living so far away from relatives, he has become a survivor.

I told him how much I appreciated his constant wit, even if I did not always laugh out loud. He laughed and reminded me that I am not funny.

On our last vacation day, I stopped my dad outside the hospital. I grabbed him again and embraced him. "I love you, Dad, and I'll always be there for you." Just as he was always there for me. Just as I will always be there for Matt.

When Matt and I got home shortly after midnight, I was exhausted.

"I love you, son."

"I love you, too, Dad."

It was the first time I'd heard those words in months. I didn't push my luck with a hug.

Doug Mead has been a single parent for 11 years and has written about single-parent issues for several magazines. He can be e-mailed at doug@parentingsolo.com.

posted by parentingsolo @ 2:43 PM