As the youngest in a family of nine children, I used illness to gain my parents' attention. With that many kids, we all had to rely on something to stand out. Since my brother excelled at math, my body’s propensity for sore throats and anemia had to do. From broken bones to hernias, I was the sick one.
But in high school I began having "spells" that stormed through my head like dread and left me with no memory of what I was doing.
Though sickness pulled my parents in, I imagined it would push my peers away. So I kept the spells a secret all the way through college. My college roommate forced me to tell my parents when I had one in front of her. Right before graduation, I learned the spells were seizures.
That led to the discovery of a tumor in the right temporal lobe of my brain.
I was a little scared but more annoyed with my parents, who agreed with the doctor that I should have surgery while I still had their insurance. This interfered with my plans to move from Wisconsin to Chicago and live the life of my dreams.
After a successful operation, I did what 10-year-olds do when they don’t get what they want. I lolled around the house like a brat with a half-shaved head. When we found out the tumor wasn’t cancerous, I had my mom and dad move me to Chicago as quickly as feasibly possible. This was after my dad helped me buy a car.
I thought everything would fall into place, but it didn’t turn out as I expected.
My brain tumor and surgery left scars. I couldn’t even forget them if I tried. I learned why I felt so depressed after making and breaking many therapy appointments. When I told a psychologist she said, “Well of course you don’t. You had brain surgery. The act of operating on a brain is traumatizing.”
I didn’t stay with that therapist for long. Instead, I quit my job on a whim. My dad was there for me again, and helped me pack all my belongings into his trailer and unpacked them in a storage locker in my old college town. It took a few years, but things got better after I started therapy in earnest. And though things were getting better, my dad was still there for me every time I hit a bump or snag.
When I bought a house and miscalculated the amount needed for the down payment, my parents lent it to me to complete the purchase. My parents came to see the house after I moved in and my dad completed a few projects. It embarrassed me when he talked my neighbor into cleaning out my gutters and I let my dad know it. My neighbor didn’t mind, but I was more worried about what this new person might think of me than I was about hurting my own dad’s feelings.
Just a few months later, he had a stroke that damaged the cells in the back of his brain and wiped away everything I knew about the man he had been.
My opportunity to thank him and make amends was gone.
I visited him as much as possible in hospitals, rehab centers, and at our home during the next year and a half that he lived. I reflected on how I’d acted when I was younger on long drives and while pushing him in his wheelchair.
I recalled how one night right after the procedure, he loitered around my hospital bed until everyone else had said goodnight and departed. Just before he left, he told me I didn’t have to pay him back the money he had loaned me for college. Then, before I could speak, he ducked out of the room.
It’s been over 30 years since my brain surgery and almost 20 since my dad died.
Now I’m married to a man with a son who spends weekends with us. My stepson was 8 when we met. He’s 17 now, nearly the age I was when I didn’t have time for my dad.
I still think about not being able to say thank you that night in the hospital and wonder why my dad left so quickly. He was a bit shy, and at his funeral we talked about how humble he was even though he served in director positions for our town’s emergency and fire departments.
Occasionally I catch myself getting upset when my stepson forgets to say thank you to his dad or me.
But then I take a cue from my dad and leave the room. Sometimes it’s easier to let children say ‘thank you’ on their own time. Even if it’s in their heart or with their actions.
If my dad were alive, I’d thank him for all the gifts he gave me. Not only for paying for college and loaning me the house down payment (which I paid back) but also for always bringing his toolbox and trailer and leading with humility.
