For Dad

I saw an oriole out riding my bike. A brilliant flash of orange as it raced to cross the street ahead of me. It’s only the 2nd time I’ve ever seen an oriole in the wild.

My Dad passed away two years ago. He was almost 81. In some ways I’m glad he wasn’t 84, 85.
In a bit of coincidence Paul Tibbets died the same year in Columbus, Ohio. You may know Paul. He was a brigadier general in the Air Force. But most likely you know him as Lt. Col Tibbets, the commanding officer of the 509th Composite Group, the Pilot of the Enola Gay.

In dropping the first atomic bomb, Little Boy, on Hiroshima, Tibbets quite possibly saved Dad’s life. An invasion of Japan was inevitable; Dad was stationed in California as an Air Combat Crewman. A bit older and he probably would already be in the Pacific Theatre. My Dad served with honor, but I’m glad he didn’t have to experience the horror of war.

While Tibbets received much criticism of the bombing he “never lost a nights sleep over it”. He served and commanded with honor, respect, and humility. My Dad would have liked getting to know him.

Dad’s diagnosis and subsequent decline came about quite quickly. We were talking once and he said that Ohio State (where I went to school and have worked for over 20 years) has been very good to me. Reflecting quickly (probably on those 80+ hour work weeks) he said – and you’ve been pretty good to Ohio State. He was right – and Ohio State was gracious to grant me leave to go home and take care of Dad so he could be at home until he passed. I am ever grateful for that.

While his decline was rapid we did have some great moments on the porch in the mornings, before he became too tired. We had the most remarkable display of birds and wildlife. We saw birds I’ve rarely seen (orioles, catbirds, and many others), and two types of woodpeckers. We saw their nest in an old tree on the other side of the pond, and they even came to the tree beside his hospital bed in the living room. It was really remarkable. More remarkable was the fact that in the weeks after he passed I rarely saw the woodpeckers, the orioles and other less common birds – they simply vanished as quickly as they came. It was almost as if they came out to say goodbye.

All of his friends came out to say goodbye. I knew my Dad as a father, I never understood him as a man. I’d met and spent some time with some of his friends in the couple of years I visited my parents snowbirding in Florida. I am most thankful for his friends, allowing me to see Dad as a man and to understand who he was. I can never repay that gift. They flocked to the house, came to the calling hours in droves, and continued to welcome and accept me as I went back and forth after the funeral. Last summer Mom and I went out to eat with a large group of them. We talked and laughed and caught up on the status of their golf games. As we were leaving one leaned over and said . . . “I really miss your Dad”.

It was not easy. The reality of the disease, the decline, the care needed, the hope lost. The inevitable faced.

But Dad handled the news and the decline with a grace and humility that made it easier for my sisters and I. He was most proud of being diagnosed as a 4.0 (he meant Stage 4 Cancer) – he told the Doctor that was the first time he’d ever gotten a 4.0! The nurses loved him – well except for when 32 family members trapsed through the ward. We’re just not a quiet bunch. I think we amused his roommates. I’m not sure how often this happens – can’t imagine it happens too often – but several of his nurses and his first roommate came either to the calling hours or to the funeral. My Dad had a way of touching people I never understood until then. A gift of listening, of caring, of consideration.

The year before we surprised Dad with an 80th Birthday party. We had no way of knowing it would be the last. I had no hand in planning it or setting it up but that didn’t stop me from taking center stage (sorry sis’s!) when it came time for cake. Couldn’t see cutting the cake without the opportunity to roast Dad and bit and make him give a speech. I’m a pretty natural talker you see. I imagine that is one of the reasons Mom asked if I would speak at Dad’s funeral. I wasn’t sure I could. But in the end I laughed at stories of Dad, the family, and decided that was what he would want me to talk about. I’m glad I did it.

You learn a lot with Death. I grew up a lot. There is never enough time, but we were fortunate to know, to have the opportunity to say, and hear, I Love You, one more time.

My father was a proper and proud , yet humble, man. Cancer threatened to strip that from him. While death itself is inevitable (as my friend’s Dad said — “none of us are getting out of here alive”), Cancer wants to humiliate you, take away your dignity. It didn’t win. Dad won. He remained true to his family and friends, to himself and to God, even as he lost the ability to speak, to do anything on his own, to be. He remained the man I learned he was, he remained strong for his wife and his daughters. I don’t know what he thought about in his quiet moments, fear of death balanced with the joy of being a Christian, wondering if he’d done right, wondering, hoping. But he never quit being Carl.

As he looked over his garden, the yard he loved and thought of things he needed to do, he remembered his fate and said — “it doesn’t matter any more”.

But to me it does matter. That Cancer robbed us all. That we can do more. So I’ll ride my bike and try to make a difference, try to stop one person from suffering like Dad. To make it matter.

I know that times are tough, I know money is tight. But let’s face the facts:
1.4 million Americans will be diagnosed with cancer this year
560,000 are expected to die from cancer this year
Nearly 1 in 2 men, 1 in 3 women will develop cancer during their lifetime
The overall cost of caner is $206 billion annually

Can we afford not to do something?

Obviously this is personal to me. We’ll all be touched in some way

by cancer. I’m riding the Pelotonia event (with Lance Armstrong) in Columbus in August. I hope to wear this jersey in memory of Dad, in honor of those who have survived. If you have a name you’d like to see on the back I am hoping for $50.00. But mainly I hope you give what you can, what you want, and that you join me in this fight against Cancer. For Dad, for your family member, for your neighbor.


I miss him too Buzz, I miss him too.