Father's Daugher
My dad had open heart surgery on March 12. Since then it's been a waiting game to see how his body will heal. The first couple days were torture for him: every breath in or out held pain, it was difficult to walk, and worst of all, it was excruciating for him to laugh.
He is a man that was born to laugh.
I remember being a little girl and waiting for the moment that my dad would walk through the front door at the end of his work day. We never knew what kind of day he'd had at his law office until we all sat down for dinner and we'd hear him tell my mom stories about the cases he worked on. But for the first 20-30 minutes of being home, he was pure joy.
He would walk through the front door, briefcase in hand, black suit coat hung over his arm, and he would sing loudly:
I'm home! I'm home!
We're going to have some fun.
We're going to have a good time.
Fun! Fun! Fun!
Every time, same words, same tune. This was the cue for my siblings and me to run towards him, and he'd lift us each into the air, swing us around, give hugs and then playfully jostle us in his arms before setting us back on the ground. He spent the first couple moments in the house infusing us with his joy and playfulness.
He was always ready with 20 questions - always wanting to know about our day, even when we were unwilling conversation partners. He would wait patiently as we recounted what we learned in math, the game we played in gym class, or the annoyance we were harboring against our sibling. If my sister was in the midst of a tantrum, he would calmly step into the situation, relieve my mom and begin talking calmly to Mary Kate. He would ask leading questions, figure out what was making her upset, and then try to ease her off the ledge.
My dad is always ready: to talk, to play cards, to make popcorn, to sing, to watch a movie, or go for a walk. He is a ready, willing participant in this journey called life.
Watching him go through this surgery and deal with its aftermath has been scary. It would be scary no matter what, but watching him deal with post-surgery symptoms in the age of COVID-19 is terrifying. News reports of people in their 60s being diagnosed with pneumonia and then spiraling into something much worse; these are the stories of our day. But when my dad is coughing, wheezing, and now diagnosed with pneumonia, I have felt a deep sense of foreboding.
What I realized last night - in the midst of a virtual story circle with people from around the globe, led by my story coach and mentor - was that my worry and anxiety about my dad is just that. It's worry and anxiety. Some moments I can trick myself into thinking that by worrying constantly about him and my mom, then somehow I'm there with them instead of feeling so far away. But no: the worry robs me of the connection I feel with him. The anxiety builds a fog around me, depletes my energy, makes me less patient with my kids and my spouse. Makes me less playful.
I don't know what's going to happen with my dad. For now his doctor keeps tabs on him via video and email - the new normal for tele-medicine - and the rest of us wait until a day when we can go hang out with him again in person.
It's painful to hear him wheeze and cough, to see him struggle when I know he wants to take a deep breath and laugh. Yet my anxiety won't give him that relief. What I realized last night was that all the things I love about my dad are things that I can gift to my children and husband right now: I can play and laugh, I can ask them 20 questions about their day, I can sing and have fun with them. Those are the traits my dad taught me as a little girl, and that's what he continues to teach me now.
Two weeks ago, the first morning he was in the ICU post-surgery, I was sitting next to my dad when my brother called.
He: How's it going? How's dad this morning?
Me: He's doing okay, still pretty sleepy.
He: How's the whole not-laughing-thing going?
Me: He's already cracked some jokes, and when the nurse comes to check on his IV or move him around, he pretends to cry out in pain in a overly-dramatic fashion, and then he waits to see her reaction.
He: Oh good!
Even in the worst pain of his life, my dad is insisting on cracking jokes, needling each one of us, goofing off with the medical staff taking care of him, and poking fun (perhaps ill-advised) at my mom, his full-time, extremely patient caregiver.
He is a man bursting with joy. No amount of pain or hardship can diminish his light. His spirit is the strongest, most generous and loving one I know. Even from physical distance, his rays shine brightly. When I called to check on him yesterday, he finally said, "Enough about me! I hate talking about myself. Tell me more about you. How are you and Tom and the kids?"
He gifts us every day with his humor and goodwill. The best I can do for him now is to pray for his healing, not let anxiety rob me of being present, and hopefully shine back some of that joy and playfulness to him.
He is a man that was born to laugh.
I remember being a little girl and waiting for the moment that my dad would walk through the front door at the end of his work day. We never knew what kind of day he'd had at his law office until we all sat down for dinner and we'd hear him tell my mom stories about the cases he worked on. But for the first 20-30 minutes of being home, he was pure joy.
He would walk through the front door, briefcase in hand, black suit coat hung over his arm, and he would sing loudly:
I'm home! I'm home!
We're going to have some fun.
We're going to have a good time.
Fun! Fun! Fun!
Every time, same words, same tune. This was the cue for my siblings and me to run towards him, and he'd lift us each into the air, swing us around, give hugs and then playfully jostle us in his arms before setting us back on the ground. He spent the first couple moments in the house infusing us with his joy and playfulness.
He was always ready with 20 questions - always wanting to know about our day, even when we were unwilling conversation partners. He would wait patiently as we recounted what we learned in math, the game we played in gym class, or the annoyance we were harboring against our sibling. If my sister was in the midst of a tantrum, he would calmly step into the situation, relieve my mom and begin talking calmly to Mary Kate. He would ask leading questions, figure out what was making her upset, and then try to ease her off the ledge.
My dad is always ready: to talk, to play cards, to make popcorn, to sing, to watch a movie, or go for a walk. He is a ready, willing participant in this journey called life.
Watching him go through this surgery and deal with its aftermath has been scary. It would be scary no matter what, but watching him deal with post-surgery symptoms in the age of COVID-19 is terrifying. News reports of people in their 60s being diagnosed with pneumonia and then spiraling into something much worse; these are the stories of our day. But when my dad is coughing, wheezing, and now diagnosed with pneumonia, I have felt a deep sense of foreboding.
What I realized last night - in the midst of a virtual story circle with people from around the globe, led by my story coach and mentor - was that my worry and anxiety about my dad is just that. It's worry and anxiety. Some moments I can trick myself into thinking that by worrying constantly about him and my mom, then somehow I'm there with them instead of feeling so far away. But no: the worry robs me of the connection I feel with him. The anxiety builds a fog around me, depletes my energy, makes me less patient with my kids and my spouse. Makes me less playful.
I don't know what's going to happen with my dad. For now his doctor keeps tabs on him via video and email - the new normal for tele-medicine - and the rest of us wait until a day when we can go hang out with him again in person.
It's painful to hear him wheeze and cough, to see him struggle when I know he wants to take a deep breath and laugh. Yet my anxiety won't give him that relief. What I realized last night was that all the things I love about my dad are things that I can gift to my children and husband right now: I can play and laugh, I can ask them 20 questions about their day, I can sing and have fun with them. Those are the traits my dad taught me as a little girl, and that's what he continues to teach me now.
Two weeks ago, the first morning he was in the ICU post-surgery, I was sitting next to my dad when my brother called.
He: How's it going? How's dad this morning?
Me: He's doing okay, still pretty sleepy.
He: How's the whole not-laughing-thing going?
Me: He's already cracked some jokes, and when the nurse comes to check on his IV or move him around, he pretends to cry out in pain in a overly-dramatic fashion, and then he waits to see her reaction.
He: Oh good!
Even in the worst pain of his life, my dad is insisting on cracking jokes, needling each one of us, goofing off with the medical staff taking care of him, and poking fun (perhaps ill-advised) at my mom, his full-time, extremely patient caregiver.
He is a man bursting with joy. No amount of pain or hardship can diminish his light. His spirit is the strongest, most generous and loving one I know. Even from physical distance, his rays shine brightly. When I called to check on him yesterday, he finally said, "Enough about me! I hate talking about myself. Tell me more about you. How are you and Tom and the kids?"
He gifts us every day with his humor and goodwill. The best I can do for him now is to pray for his healing, not let anxiety rob me of being present, and hopefully shine back some of that joy and playfulness to him.
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