Sharing stories of dad
My dad buys a hat. He doesn’t need a hat and as long as I’ve known him, has never worn a hat. When I ask, “Dad, what are you doing?”, he replies, “I think I need a hat.” My wife and I snicker and laugh, wondering why a man with little money might spend $150 on an item of clothing that he doesn’t need nor will ever wear again.
My wife, mother and I continue to walk the Sandpoint Farmers Market as the hattier steams then folds, wrestles and manipulates the hat until it fits perfectly on my father’s head. Dad catches up with us as we slowly peruse the craft tables and taste fresh honey from the local beekeeper. He holds the front brim of the hat, tips his head and offers a southernly, “Howdy.” We all laugh and continue to shop.
Dad is sick. I first notice his diminishing cognition six months earlier. My parents live in California and I call to say hello once a week. Every call starts the same. “Hi dad, how are you?” “Finer than frog fur,” is always his immediate response as I chuckle expectantly at his silly saying. This time his response is an unexpected, “OK, how are you?” Curious at his response, we begin our small-talk about the weather, family, work and golf; the conversation always turns to golf.
Usually we talk of a few great shots we make, the beauty of a new course we play, or the ridiculously nutty behavior of the friends we play with. We laugh, joke, then challenge to beat each other the next time we play. This call is different.
Dad begins to replay every shot he makes the day before at Pine Mountain Lake Country Club. Ten minutes into the conversation, I realize things are not OK. Dad shares, “That was hole No. 4. Now we walk to hole 5. It is a 156-yard par three. I think I should use an 8-iron, but my friends talk me into using a 7. I launch it 20 yards over the green. I guess I was right.”
“Dad, are you going to recite your entire round to me,” I offer with an uneasy chuckle. “I’m only on hole No. 5,” my dad states in frustration. “I then had to decide to chip with a sand wedge or gap wedge. What should I do?”
“Dad, let me talk with mom,” I ask as gently as I can. “Mother, Billy wants to talk with you,” my dad yells in a matter-of-fact way. My mom accepts the receiver and I begin to cry. We talk for hours about dad, his health and mom’s fears.
Dad’s undiagnosed illness creates dramatic weight loss, dementia, hallucinations and times of lucidity. The brightest minds at Stanford University struggle to determine the cause of his illness — his body’s immune system is fighting a disease that is not there.
Shortly before my dad’s death, my wife and I visit him in the small Northern California town of Tuolumne. The whole family is there and we laugh, play poker, eat great food and talk of life and of death. I ask dad to go fly fishing with me.
Dad agrees and we head north to Kennedy Meadows and fish the Clark Fork River in the high Sierra Nevada mountains. Too weak to fish, dad watches. After catching six or seven fish, I walk up the sandy river bank to where dad is sitting and say, “Dad, you’ll get better. They will figure this out and you and I will fish together again.”
Dad never gets better. The whole time in the hospital he continually tells the doctors that they have to find out what is making him sick, because he made a promise to go fly fishing with his son. This is a promise he can’t keep.
Dad dies in his sleep a few weeks later. I’ve not been fly fishing since.
I’m not sure why I share this story. Maybe because I miss my dad, maybe because I see someone on TV making a hat and laugh, remembering this day in Sandpoint my wife, mother and I share with dad, or maybe because I am not at peace with my father’s death? Maybe I need to spend some time in a river throwing a fly at some fish to figure this out? Dad will be there.
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Send comments or other suggestions to William Rutherford at bprutherford@hotmail.com or visit pensiveparenting.com.