I sobbed.
Hearing his voice laced with fright and audibly weakened, I wept and felt as if my own world was falling down around me.
That was me on February 21st at around 3:30pm or so when I first talked to my dad from 2,600 miles away as he laid in the recovery room after suffering a heart attack. In the 3 minutes that I spoke with my dad, my relationship quite literally flashed before my mind. Sadly for me, my relationship seemed to be filled with my own self-loathing and guilt.
My relationship with my dad hasn't been strawberries and cream. I'm the first one to admit that. My dad is probably a close second. We're too much alike but at opposite ends of the spectrum. He's a stubborn and principled man that many times felt like zealotry. Or at least that's how I felt for many years of my life until 3:29pm on February 21st, 2013.
You see, at that moment when I was able to hear his voice after learning the news, the walls I had built up around me blew in and was washed over by the pettiness of my own actions over the numerous years.
In my myopic youth, all I saw were the faults, the dangling modifiers and flaws that came with my father.
My dad can be a bit gruff and rough around the edges. His mental filter, at times, resembles a sieve which creates mild cases of "foot in mouth" disease. He can be so steadfast on proving a point that Torquemada would blush at the lengths he might go to proving a point.
His gruffness and rough around the edge feel is seen (and felt) when he gives you a hug. It's hug you won't soon forget as many times you might slip a disc or sustain PTSD. I secretly think he's on the payroll of local chiropractors and physical therapists as your upper torso can quite literally be crushed in the bear hugs.
His emmentaler cheese mental filter is heard as he talks plainly of justice, fairness and compassion for all. Except for rats. He really doesn't like rats and sometimes Democrats.
His zealotry would carry him to the ends of the earth if we asked him to, especially if there is a fishing brook or lake at the end of the journey.
When asked to give you a back rub, he gives you a back rub with such vigor that your bone marrow cries out in pain. His Thanksgiving Day dinner toasts are renowned for always ending in him getting misty eyed when talking about our forefathers and his "blessings" that he's been given in his life, no matter how small they might seem. He's enormously proud of the tomatoes, lettuce and zucchini that he's able to grown in a 3 x 3 planter's box. My family likes to joke that my if my dad were to ever retire that we'd need him to go chop down a tree every single day as he such a vim and vigor for life.
As you can plainly see, my father is a flawed man. One that I wouldn't want any other way.
No one is perfect in this world. We're all Navajo rugs in some way. We all have a flaw or a mistake some where inside us. However, it's about what we've become with the perspective of what we were given to begin with. It's that last part that has taken me far too long to figure out.
So here I sit ruefully muttering about days wasted, days gone by.
Or is it now days given, days to be had?
I've undoubtedly been given a mulligan along with the rest of my family. It's a new day for me. A brighter dawn, a not so dark night with better days to come.
Things can change in the blink of an eye or in my case a heartbeat continuing to beat. It's taken me thirty four plus years to realize how foolish I have been. It's taken me too long to understand how bloody and utterly lucky I am have a father like mine.
I still have some grains of sand in the hourglass to realize that. I'm blessed to have some moments to share without reservation, without prejudice with my father.
Carpe diem dad. Carpe diem Daniel.
I love you dad.
Even with your neck kisses and your eternal love of Chico, our hellspawn kitty.
