So we've arrived at another Fathers Day, a holiday that is for the most part foreign to me. As most of my close friends know, my father died when I was only 3. He was just 42 when his third heart attack took his life.
I'm envious of my friends whose parents are still around. My sister Jean was 9 when we lost Dad, and I know it was tough on her because she had had long enough to establish memories of their time together. I, on the other hand, have just a couple of fleeting memories of him. One was of me at my most mischievously adorable... I went through this phase where I would get into the cupboard, find the open box of laundry detergent and dump it all over the kitchen floor. I remember Dad catching me in the act once and trying to be all stern and mad, but he couldn't pull it off and just started laughing.
The other memory I have of my dad is not a pleasant one. It's of him lying on our living room couch having one of his heart attacks. I don't remember if it was the first, second or last one. I only remember standing there looking up at him like, "What's wrong with Daddy?" Then I remember being picked up and taken out of the room.
Because I grew up without a father, I've subscribed to the "you can't miss what you never really had" school of thought. But now, as I get older, I see many of my friends having kids. I see that precious bond and I wonder about all of the things I missed out on after I lost Dad. But then the "everything happens for a reason" side of my brain takes over, and I realize that my life would have turned out far differently had my dad lived longer. And I've got a lot of really good people and things in my life to be thankful for.
So if your dad is still with you, please let him know how much he means to you while you still can. And to my father-in-law Tom, who has been one of my biggest cheerleaders in my belated return to college, Happy Fathers Day. See you at my graduation in August. :-)
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