Happy Birthday, Dad
Yesterday would have been my dad's 93rd birthday. My niece posted a beautiful picture of him, dancing with her, on Facebook. I wanted to "like" it. I wanted to say something like, wish you were here. Something like, if he were here today, we would...
We would what?
Normally, my sister and I, and maybe my brother, would be in Florida with my parents for his birthday. But if he were alive today, would that be a good thing? We kids might enjoy a few more minutes with him; once he recognized us, if he recognized us. But mom? She would be back to the exhausted, worn out, anxious woman she had turned into, unable to go out of the house, unable to socialize, unable to go very far at all. She would only get her hair done when someone came to visit, because she couldn't leave dad alone. She would take him with her to the grocery store and hope he didn't stray while she did the shopping. We were lucky he still recognized her authority over him.
As much as I resented her saying it so baldly, my boss's summation was correct. My dad did us "a favor." He passed quickly after having a heart attack in the shower at 2 a.m. My brother, sister and I had all hoped that his heart would take him before the Alzheimer's did, and that is exactly what happened.
So no, I don't wish my dad were alive today. Not the dad who left us, anyway. I'll stick with the memories of him from long ago. I'll remember the tall, suave, sophisticated man who swept me up and put me on his shoulders in crowds. The silly, lovable man who answered every question with a song. The man who sat on the couch with me, untangling the knots in my sewing, taking splinters out of my hand with his medic's kit from the army, hunched over his workbench in the basement doing magnificent things with sparkling jewels and gold. I'll remember the man who demanded our spouses call their parents the moment we walked in the door when we came to visit, who took our babies in his arms and played harmonica for them while he rocked them in our rocking chairs, who proudly showed them off in shul. I'll remember the man who could answer any question, or if he couldn't, he provided the encyclopedia so that we could "look it up" together. It doesn't matter if some of the memories aren't perfect. They are the way I remember them, and they make me feel good.
My dad loved me. He loved us all. He adored our children. To the very, very end, he wanted nothing more than for us all to have grandchildren, so he could have more babies for him to play with. Once he remembered our names, he asked about our children, and then he would say, with a hopeful smile, "Do they have babies?"
My dad was love. Through and through. Generation to generation. L'dor v'dor. Happy birthday dad. I miss you.
We would what?
Normally, my sister and I, and maybe my brother, would be in Florida with my parents for his birthday. But if he were alive today, would that be a good thing? We kids might enjoy a few more minutes with him; once he recognized us, if he recognized us. But mom? She would be back to the exhausted, worn out, anxious woman she had turned into, unable to go out of the house, unable to socialize, unable to go very far at all. She would only get her hair done when someone came to visit, because she couldn't leave dad alone. She would take him with her to the grocery store and hope he didn't stray while she did the shopping. We were lucky he still recognized her authority over him.
As much as I resented her saying it so baldly, my boss's summation was correct. My dad did us "a favor." He passed quickly after having a heart attack in the shower at 2 a.m. My brother, sister and I had all hoped that his heart would take him before the Alzheimer's did, and that is exactly what happened.
So no, I don't wish my dad were alive today. Not the dad who left us, anyway. I'll stick with the memories of him from long ago. I'll remember the tall, suave, sophisticated man who swept me up and put me on his shoulders in crowds. The silly, lovable man who answered every question with a song. The man who sat on the couch with me, untangling the knots in my sewing, taking splinters out of my hand with his medic's kit from the army, hunched over his workbench in the basement doing magnificent things with sparkling jewels and gold. I'll remember the man who demanded our spouses call their parents the moment we walked in the door when we came to visit, who took our babies in his arms and played harmonica for them while he rocked them in our rocking chairs, who proudly showed them off in shul. I'll remember the man who could answer any question, or if he couldn't, he provided the encyclopedia so that we could "look it up" together. It doesn't matter if some of the memories aren't perfect. They are the way I remember them, and they make me feel good.
My dad loved me. He loved us all. He adored our children. To the very, very end, he wanted nothing more than for us all to have grandchildren, so he could have more babies for him to play with. Once he remembered our names, he asked about our children, and then he would say, with a hopeful smile, "Do they have babies?"
My dad was love. Through and through. Generation to generation. L'dor v'dor. Happy birthday dad. I miss you.