More on Fathers and Sons

(This is unedited and I held back on the language, but it involves death so there is some profanity. If that offends you, stop reading here.)

Today is 9 years since I got that phone call. Its one of those calls that you know is bad when the phone rings. I was 29. I didn't know what to do or how I was supposed to react. So I cried. A lot. I can't think of too many things that rank up there with losing one's father for a man. Losing mom......losing a spouse......losing a child. Those all suck. Losing a father sucks a lot.

I know I am not the first to lose a dad in my 20s. I know I won't be the last. I get it. There are people who have dad die when they are 5, 8, 10, 12, whatever. I am sure it sucks then too. I don't know. I can only speak of my experiences and what I have learned.

We dropped off the kids and flew to San Diego. I got there and had to help out my mom pick out a casket. Talk about creepy. Casket "shopping" is absurd. Who the hell likes that crap? We had a funeral the next day. Somehow, some way, I made it through the funeral. I guess its an honor to be a pall bearer.............but I don't know. It sucks. You don't really want to be a pall bearer because it means someone close has died. After all, has a stranger's family ever asked you to be a pall bearer? I doubt it.

After the funeral, we went back to my mom's house. I had to answer the phone when someone called. They asked for my dad. It hurt so much to have to say he had died. Its one of those things that you always remember. People came and were nice. They wanted to share stories. I wanted nothing to do with it. Then I had to listen to my aunt, my mom's sister, talk about how this was a blessing, how he wasn't suffering anymore.

Don't ever fucking say that to anyone. There is someone, somewhere who doesn't think its a blessing. Maybe you do. Maybe someone else does. I swear there is someone who doesn't think its a blessing. And if you do say that, the person who doesn't find it a blessing has my permission to kick the living crap out of you.

How the fuck was this a blessing for me? I was 29. I had just graduated from law school. I had two kids - who knew two more were on the way? Worse of all, I didn't return my dad's last call to me. Yep, that's me, the fuck up who didn't pick up the phone to call my dad back when he left me a message from the hospital. Why not? Why the hell would I? My whole life, my dad had Parkinson's. He was in the hospital for all kinds of weird things, including hurting his back sleeping on a bed. Seriously. This was some stomach blockage. He was supposed to be discharged. It wasn't a big deal. Then he had a heart attack - and gone. Just like that. No chance to talk to him, no chance to say goodbye. Nothing.

We had a little service, I guess, at the retirement home. People came and talked more, hugged, and drank. It was a celebration of a guy who made friends everywhere he went. I can't think of one person who didn't like my dad.

So I think about that a lot. And this year, its my year to make September better. So maybe the guilt should be gone. Maybe its time to say it: I fucked up. I can never get that time back. Its my biggest regret in life. I own it. I did it. No one else made me. In my list of fuck ups in my life, and I have some doozies, there is none bigger than this one. I should have picked up the damn phone, dialed his number and talked to him. It doesn't matter if I had nothing to say. It doesn't matter if he wanted to ask me about his computer, which he usually did, or his fantasy football team or the fucking weather, 70 and sunny in San Diego 300 days out of the year. None of that matters. I should have picked up the fucking piece of crap phone and called him. I didn't. Its my fault. I get it.

So what have I learned? I don't know. I was out on the soccer field today. The weather was nice. Cool, a bit of sun. Green grass. White lines. And I was thinking what the hell am I doing out here? I am 38 years old. I have one screwed up knee and one on the way. I am old. I am out of shape since I can't exercise with my bad knee. I am way over matched by these 20 somethings who come out there, are faster, bigger, stronger, and younger.

But, its my connection to my dad. And its all I have left. As long as I am on the field, playing the way he taught me to play, I have some connection. At some point, it will end. I know. I can't play forever. 10 years? 12 years? Maybe less, maybe a few more.

But today we were out there playing. Last 5. I was tired. I was sore. I didn't feel so good. And it didn't matter. For 9 years, I have picked up a piece of grass, kissed it and thrown it into the air. (Yeah, make fun of it, I dare you. A guy did a few years ago in our pick up league. 10 yards I sent him on a clean shoulder charge.) Its my thing. We called last 5 and I did it again today. The other team didn't score. I could feel my dad there with me.

I know. Its crazy. He wasn't there. He isn't there anymore. He can't be. But he is. And not just on the soccer field.

I know he is there when I am with my kids. I know he is there when I am in court. Sometimes, when a debt collector is really pissing me off, he is there. He is there when I am up speaking in front of a group. He encouraged me in my speech and debate. He was there when the damn Toyota Lexus won my first extemporaneous speech tournament.

He also taught me a lot of things and he is there with me when I remember those. He taught me that each generation should try to do better than the prior. Its why he valued education so much. My grandparents weren't educated. My grandfather sold toilet fixtures then worked on bombs in WWII. Then back to selling toilets. My dad put himself through school - bachelor's, masters and a PhD in pharmaceutical chemistry. I think 3 people know what that is.

(As an aside, the guy knew more about chemistry than anyone else I know. He couldn't teach me freaking high school chemistry. I barely passed. Dang good thing the teacher was 25, cute and I wanted her to think I was smart. But he could calculate present value in his head but couldn't teach me how to make H20.)

He passed on the value of education to me. Bachelor's degree, CPCU, law school. He saw me graduate. He talked to me after I took the bar exam. He never saw me sworn in as an attorney. He never had the chance to watch me practice law. Of course, there is a negative side to this. I could never have gone into business. I didn't want to have to compete with his legacy. Stupid, yes. But that is how I saw it.

Now, pushing 40, I look back and I realize its not a competition in terms of who makes more money, who has more things. He wanted me to learn from his mistakes. He was gone a lot. He traveled for business and wasn't home for more than 2 weeks at a time until I was in high school. I realize that there is more to being successful than making money. You have to figure out how you define a success and then reach for that. So while I will never have a PhD in anything, while I will never invent anything or have any patents or buy any companies, I don't need to. I realized that doing better means being there for my kids. Being around for them when they need me. Spending time with them doing things that they like - acting class, dance class, boy scouts, whatever.

He taught me that each generation also has it harder than the prior. My grandparents dealt with the great depression. My parents dealt with the cold war. My generation has Iraq, 9/11, drugs in school. My kids have issues that I haven't even figured out yet. But I could talk to my dad about these things. At first, we talked when he drove me to high school. Then we talked when I would come home from college for visits. Then over a game of pool at the retirement community. I know its my obligation to find that time with my kids.

He taught me to enjoy life. He always told me that if we got an inheritance it would be because he died before he could spend it all. I thought he was joking, but you never really knew. I remember he fired his first financial planner in San Diego. The guy was a jackass, but that isn't why he was fired. He was fired because he told my dad to stop buying diamonds. Yep. He thought my dad shouldn't buy my mom diamonds. My dad fired him. He had his toys. He went from his dream car, an 84 Corvette to a Chrysler LeBaron convertible with a 5.0 engine AND a turbo. Yeah, that thing went fast. Then a 72 Buick Skylark - that went faster. He liked his fast cars and his toys.

He passed that on to me. I don't know whether it was driving the LeBaron in high school and going way too fast, or driving that Skylark cross country with my dad and my brother. Somewhere along the way, he passed on his love of cars to me. He didn't work on them. He just admired them - and drove them. Delaware is still a blur when he and I were driving alone to a soccer tournament in the Corvette. I like my toys. I admit it. I got that from him. I realize, especially now, that life is too short. You should enjoy it. I don't buy into this idea that you should buy some $10,000 car if you really want, and can afford, the $20,000 car. Get it if you can afford it and enjoy it. I assure you my dad enjoyed everything he had and hasn't enjoyed anything in the last 9 years. He can't.

So here I am - 9 years almost to the hour when my dad passed away. I have learned that I have to go back to San Diego. I need to revisit some of those places that I enjoyed with my dad. I made some progress this year. In June, I took my kids to Nick's at the Beach, a place my dad loved, Del Mar beach, where I learned to boogie boards on Wednesday nights in the summer while he bbq'd with his friends. I visited the cemetery. I drove past my old house, past his retirement community.

And I sit and cry sometimes. Not often. I still miss him, but I have learned that its part of life. We live, we grow, we die. Those of us who live have to remember those of us who died and the lessons we learned. I am going to pass on those lessons to my kids and try to let the guilt go.

I miss you dad. I love you dad. I know someway, somehow, you are up there and looking out for me. I appreciate that and I hope I make you proud. I love you.