20
years.
As
of this month it’s been two decades since I watched my father take his last
breath. I did not mark the anniversary
of his death (Feb. 9th) on Facebook, nor the anniversary of his
funeral (Feb. 13th). These
two days are no harder than any other day.
In fact, on these two days I’m prepared for tough memories. I’m prepared to relive those last moments,
and it’s that preparation that gets me by.
On the contrary, it’s the days I’m not prepared for that hit me the
hardest. Those days when I’m having a
good moment and it suddenly hits me like a ton of bricks that I wish my Dad was
there to share it with me.
One
such moment happened last fall. We were
on vacation in Chicago and I had selected the Museum of Science & Industry
as one of our activities. We were
working our way through the various exhibits and as we entered an exhibit hall
I saw it. The large illuminated “THINK”
sign. The slogan for IBM, a company my
dad worked for most of my youth. We
talked about how Grandpa Tom worked for a computer company, and yet there still
is not a personal computer in the house I grew up in. (Dad always knew that something better was
just on the horizon, so we kept waiting for “better.”)
A
couple months later my thoughts turned to Christmas gifts. I’m not a fan of gifts, but I thought of
something I wanted. I wanted my Dad’s
banjo. Not so much a gift, but an early
inheritance. Mom was happy to part with
it and I was happy to receive it. It
represents something so uniquely “Dad” to me.
I don’t know anyone else (other than his teacher) that even plays banjo
and it brings back good memories. The
case is damaged and I briefly considered getting it replaced but that would
ruin the memory. All the damage to the
case was caused by me as a busy child who repeatedly tripped over it while
playing in the living room. A memory
that makes me smile and does not bring tears to my eyes. (And also reminds me that I should keep it
far away from where Rachel plays).
Elisabeth picked up the banjo and within 5 minutes was able to play
it. If that didn’t bring a smile to my Dad
in heaven, I don’t know what will.
It’s
these things that come out of nowhere.
But this month was the icing on the top of the cake. An offer came in the mail that to anyone else
would seem irrelevant. It was an offer
for National Geographic magazine. For
some reason I felt overwhelmingly compelled to order this magazine. Jeff didn’t argue it, but was surprised. I couldn’t explain it, other than to joke
that our home was sorely lacking in periodicals with photographs of naked
African women; an issue I would remedy.
But
then a moment of clarity. Much like the
banjo, National Geographic magazine was something that seemed very “Dad” to me. I knew no one else who actually read it. There was always an issue next to his chair
in the living room and it was this magazine that sparked my fascination with
Jane Goodall. It was no accident that I
received this magazine offer at the twentieth anniversary of my father’s
passing. I think it was my Dad’s way of
letting me know that even after two decades he’s still here with me. I can’t wait for my first issue to arrive.
These
items make me wonder what “quirky” items will bring about memories for my girls
some day. (Hopefully a long, long time
from now). My guess is that a can of
Mountain Dew will be one of them. But
the one thing I hope my girls learn from me is something I learned from my
Dad. Youth today refer to it as
YOLO---you only live once. My Dad never
used the acronym, he simply lived it.
When he got his diagnosis he refused medical treatment that would extend
his life. While frustrating to the rest
of us, I think he was able to make this decision because he lived with no
regrets. He knew that you can’t wait for
a cancer diagnosis to realize you only live once.
This
month we’ve watched two families we care about say good-bye to their sons. One was 4 years old, barely starting life,
and the other was 18 years old, ready to become an adult. No one understands more than these two
families the significance of YOLO. You
make the most of the time you have because you don’t know how much time that
will be. In this spirit, I did not make
New Year resolutions and I’m not giving something up for Lent. I don’t want to use a specific 40-day window
to try and better myself---I should be doing this all 365 days of every
year. But at the opposite end of the
spectrum, giving myself a year to accomplish something might be too long. Hopefully this will allow me to live life
like my dad, with no regrets. Instead of
just casually tossing around the acronym YOLO I want to actually live that
way. Maybe I’ll even learn to play the
banjo.
Join
me. You won’t regret it.
