Conscious Choice: Knowing Dad...At Last

June 2004 | BackWords

Knowing Dad...At Last

by Harold Holt

My father was raised by my grandfather to be a rock. He never asked for help even when he needed it the most. When his impending death became as inevitable as a break in the weather, dad remained stubborn, steadfast and defiant. I believe that all misfortune generally leads to a life lesson, which, in turn, generally leads to closure and peace. I learned this from my father, following his death.

Defiance was nothing new to him. In his younger days, he’d defy a stifling case of the flu by charging downtown to his job regardless; or he’d cut himself working on the car, then continue to work right through the blood spill without tending to it. And it wasn’t so much an air of machismo as it was a desire to allow the spirit to carry on where the body was failing, as he usually tended to himself after completing his task.

When my father finally started suffering from the effects of an enlarged-heart condition, all I wanted to do was help him, to ease his burden just a little, but he was adamantly opposed to it. He acknowledged that he could no longer “get around” as well as he once could, but he was insistent on doing the things his body allowed him to do, and reluctant to hand along the reigns of primary responsibility in his household. Sometimes we argued about it, but his will was in no way diminished by his physical ailments, so I always respectfully backed down.

It came to be that Dad could barely walk to the bathroom without help; he’d started keeping a pail close by. One weekend, I’d finally convinced him to go into the veteran’s hospital. I remember anticipating the quiet time he and I would have to sit and talk upon his return. He was brought home the next day with heart medicine and water pills, and he was as different from the man that went in as death is from birth. He was now a somber, withdrawn spirit with very little to say about anything. If he was resistant to my reaching out before, he was impossible to reach now. I tended to the rest of his needs that afternoon, trying to make him as comfortable as I could. I took a quick walk to the drugstore to fill the prescription he’d gotten from the hospital. I returned that afternoon to find my father sitting in his recliner with his feet kicked up and the TV on. The family dog raised its head from slumber but did not stand up, as it usually did whenever one of us entered the house. The dog had been there when it happened while I was out: it had seen my father pass away.

The loss I felt was far more than the loss of a champion who’d managed to leave his only son a debt-free home, a car and years of his teachings. I’d lost the chance to reach out to him, the chance to tell him that I understood much of what he felt. I never got to thank him for his care; I never got the chance to return the deed because he wouldn’t let me. This bothered me more than I actually realized at the time.

I returned to work soon after my father’s burial, despite everyone’s insistence that I “take more time off to deal with it.” The streets around my office were regularly traveled by the homeless from a nearby mission, so it wasn’t strange to be approached and solicited. Admittedly, I’d gotten in the habit of ignoring most of them, so I couldn’t explain why one of them suddenly took my attention. I’d actually noticed this particular homeless gentleman a couple months prior, maybe because he’d never approached me. He would just sit in an unused doorway of a building that I walked by en route to my breakfast spot. He apparently slept there, as I regularly saw him in a cocoon of blankets. He’d never ask for money, nor had he ever looked my way. But one morning in particular, he somehow drew my undivided attention and I felt a concern that surpassed basic human compassion. I felt myself wanting to reach out, needing to reach out ... Although I’d seen the man before, this was the first time I really saw him. My hands trembled and my stomach ached slightly as I decided to buy the man something to eat.

I went inside and got my usual bowl of grits for breakfast, along with four slices of bread, butter and jelly packets, a bowl of rice and hash browns. After exiting the building, I slowly approached the homeless man’s doorway. I knelt beside him watching his weary eyes focus on me. I talked past the lump in my throat and said, “Hey, I — I picked this up for you, ok?”

His eyes widened as he leaned forward and checked out what I was handing him. He graciously took the bread and the rice and said in a voice that was oddly soft, “Thank you ... Thank you.”

I remember feeling elated without knowing why, and practically floating from that feeling for the rest of the day. I decided I’d buy him a meal each morning since he was always out there, but the next morning when I went out for breakfast, there was no sign of him. In fact, I never saw him again after that day.

Before writing this piece, I’d only related this experience to a select few, and each had his own spiritual take on what it meant. I prefer to think of it as having had one more chance to reach out to my father, or at least a soul like his. Since the encounter, I’ve truly been more at peace with my father’s passing. It’s common to wish for a second chance; it’s a blessing when you get it, and it turns out exactly the way you wanted it to.

Thank you, Dad.

Chicagoan Harold Holt is a writer and English instructor who is moving on to the next lesson that life offers him.

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