“Is he your grandpa?” one of my middle school classmates asked quietly as my dad picked me up from school. Stunned, and wondering how she could think that, I discreetly informed her he was my dad. “Sorry,” she whispered, eyes to the floor. It was at the moment I realized I had a father much older than most people my age.
Dad was 40 years old on the day I was born - actually, 40 ½, but who’s counting? He and my mother had both been previously married, and by the time the two celebrated their nuptials, my father was on the dark side of his 30s. My mother, on the other hand, was eight years his junior. While Dad had already fathered two other children over fifteen years prior, my mother was still waiting for the time she would hold the title of parent.
Until my friend posed her shocking question, I had never thought of my dad as being “old." Sure, he had grey hair that was quickly becoming whiter, but still, to me, that was just how dad’s hair looked. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that him being older because an issue – and by issue, I mean a health issue. He was at work when he started having chest pains. He was quickly rushed to the hospital, and after multiple tests, we quickly learned he had four major heart blockages. My mind was racing. Open heart surgery? Isn’t that what grandparents have?
The doctor was firm but hopeful as he conveyed the results. His suggestion was to schedule the surgery for the next morning. Thinking quickly, so I wouldn’t hear the doctor’s description of the surgery and success rate, Mom handed me a fistful of change and instructed me to gather snacks from the vending machine down the hall.
The next day my mother insisted I go to school. I thought this was a bad decision, because I wanted to be at the hospital while she waited on Dad’s surgery to be finished. She assured me she would pick me up after it was over so I would be there to see him when he awoke. Satisfied with her compromise, I went on about my day.
When the bell sounded at the day’s end, my mother was waiting outside to collect me. We drove over to the hospital and planted ourselves in the designated waiting area. As the minutes passed, I could sense my Mother’s anxiousness. “What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling a lump in my throat. “Nothing, everything is fine, sweetie,” she assured.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the doctor came to speak with us. “Everything went fine; he’s resting, and should be awake shortly.” I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
Unfortunately, a few years later Dad was diagnosed with a kidney disease that was in its final stages. He was placed on a donor list, and shortly afterwards, he started dialysis three times a week. The sight of seeing my strong father in such a position really took a toll on me. There were many times during this period where I wished so badly that he was at least ten years younger and in better health.
Finally, I realized no matter how much I wished, this was the situation at hand. It was at that point I began to truly appreciate my father’s wisdom and advice. During this time we developed an even closer relationship because no one was too sure how much time he had. My father quickly became a true friend – someone who gave me the soundest advice on love and life as well as the perfect one to share a dry joke with as we had the same quirky sense of humor. I was even able to introduce him to the art of texting.
Dad fought the good fight for the next few years before ultimately succumbing to his illness. Receiving the call informing me he had passed was crippling. Everything inside me wanted to deny the truth, and to be honest, sometimes I still have a hard time believing he is really gone. He was not there to walk me down the aisle, and he will not meet his grandchildren. While I am forever thankful for the time spent together, I also feel robbed of my time with him. So, to honor him, I will keep him alive in spirit and keep our shared memories forever playing in my head.
