A FATHER'S LOVE

My father and I had a tumultuous time during my growing-up years. I was strong-willed and didn't care if my smart mouth and telling the truth about my misdeeds would result in severe punishment. Dad was a firm believer in "spare the rod; spoil the child," and I wasn't spoiled by any stretch of the imagination. We were both wrong in our approaches, but that's all water under the proverbial bridge now.

My father gave me a glimpse into his view of love two times after I was grown. We were having lunch with my brother and my 14-year-old daughter when he began talking about the meaning of love. He explained that he didn't know what love was, as he had never felt loved by his parents. While sitting on a mesquite-infested, hot, and humid island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean during WWII, he would write heartfelt poems to his parents. At age 18, he was very homesick and in dangerous, unfamiliar surroundings. Many of my father's poems were borrowed by other soldiers to send to their loved ones. My father never received one letter from his parents. After the war was over and he returned home, he asked his mother why she didn't send him any messages or acknowledge the letters he had written to her. She replied, "Oh, I never thought about it."

Another time was when we were together at the veterinarian's office almost 20 years ago. Daddy was told that his beloved dog, Pepper, had advanced cancer. Whatever time Pepper had left would be spent in misery. My father made the decision to have him euthanized. I never saw Daddy cry until that day. Daddy wept as he told us that he had never experienced love until Pepper entered his life at age 70. I was disconcerted by his admission, which naturally included me, but my shock was quickly replaced by sorrow. It broke my heart that he had never felt love except with Pepper, and now the dog would no longer be part of his life.

My Dad and I were fortunate to have a good relationship as adults. We played many rounds of golf together. He was my biggest cheerleader, although my golf game would never come close to his expert skill at golf. I began to understand him and forgive him. I knew he was proud of me. Maybe I could not see his good qualities as a child, but they became apparent to me as we grew closer. He never spoke a negative word about anyone. He never used profanity. He was a local history buff and wrote a weekly column in the local newspaper for many years. He loved to tease everyone he encountered to show that he noticed them. He counted among his friends people of different races. He tried his best to live a godly life, although he missed the mark many times, as we all do. I understood his confusion about love, as his parents never demonstrated that they cared about him, leaving him with an emptiness that makes it hard to trust anyone.

When I retired three years ago after living and working in South Florida, I was looking forward to spending more time with my father. I imagined driving him around the countryside while he told me the history of some long-forgotten creek or identified birds, trees, etc. You know how it goes... best-laid plans by mice and men often go astray. He had already lived in a locked unit for a few months at the Veteran's Home in Temple due to moderate dementia. When you spent time with him, his lucid moments decreased. After about 20 minutes, he might ask me if I had seen Dana. I would remind him I was there but didn't look the same because I had gotten old. He'd reply, "No, you've gotten better."  I knew he loved me. He didn't have to say the word.

My father wasn't terminally ill, but dementia at age 91 can do terrible things to a mind and body. He began refusing to eat or drink. When my mother asked if a feeding tube should be inserted, I advised her to tell the doctor no. After all, my father had made the decision not to live. I thought we should honor it.

I saw him for the last time a few weeks before he died. As I kissed Daddy on the forehead before leaving, I told him I loved him. He whispered, "I love you, too, sweetheart."

"Love" is hard to say for some of us, but it's always there...sometimes below the surface. And, if you're lucky, the word emerges at just the right time.

 (Daddy and Pepper--Pepper is the black dog on a leash.  My Dad worked for Phillips Petroleum Company for many years.)