This is probably one of the most honest things I’ve ever written, and it almost feels cliche to post it to the blog, but it seems appropriate for Father’s Day. My Dad is fine now, but that night at 4am was scary and we didn’t know what was going to happen. This is how I dealt with it.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.
Dear Dad,
It’s 4am on Sunday, May 3rd, and you’re sitting in a hospital. You’re hundreds of miles away and I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to write this letter. Over the years there’s so many things that we’ve said to each other, but there is one thing that I have never said enough, I love you.
I love you for helping me to grow up to be a man. While I wasn’t lucky enough to get your eyesight (I guess not all of us can have better than 20/20 vision) I did get your math-mind, and a bit of your work ethic. You are one of the hardest working people I know, you’ll work 16 hours a day and not even bat an eye. I also got your desire to just get things done; to finish a project, no matter how long it takes, or how close it is to Thanksgiving dinner when people are on their way over.
I love you for all of the things you’ve taught me. You taught me golf, and I swear I’ll actually beat you one of these days. I remember when we’d go bowling, and even though I have a smooth roll, I couldn’t knock ’em down like you. I remember learning Euchre; you’ve always been good at that. How you know what card David or I are going to turn up, I don’t know, but you always know. I wish I had learned your ability to cook, I still think about London broil that you would make, always so good the day after.
I love you for your support. You were one of the first ones to fully support me in soccer, in comedy, and in moving to New York. You were always there at my soccer games, a great person of support on the sidelines, as I ran up and down the field like a preying mantis. And you were there after comedy shows, telling me what you thought was funny, and laughing even when I embellished my childhood in the stories I told. You always tell me, without a doubt in your mind, that I will be successful, that I’ll go on and make it at whatever it is that I choose.
I love you for your strength, your support, your encouragement. I love you for what you’ve taught me, shown me, and told me. I love you for the values you instilled in me, the character you’ve helped give me, and for helping me become the man I am today.
I guess I also inherited your hard exterior, and I think it’s why I’m writing this letter. We were never ones to be highly emotional–I guess Mom did enough of that for both of us (just kidding, Mom). My friends joke about how I never seem to be affected by things, that I’m always able to think clearly and rationally. Usually that’s a pretty good thing; I’m able to keep a level head, not get angry, and I always try to think about what’s best. But unfortunately it also means that I don’t always say what needs to be said. And while one letter will never be enough to tell you how much I care for you, or appreciate you for everything you’ve done, at least it’s a start, right?
So as you sit in the hospital hundreds of miles away, I just think about all of that, and how much I owe to you and Mom. I don’t know what will happen next, but I know we’ll get through this. You’re such a strong person, one little ol’ heart attack isn’t enough to keep you down. In fact you’ll probably be trying to go back to work tomorrow. I know I haven’t said it enough, but know that I love you. For all of the reasons above, and for so many more, I love you, Dad.
Your son,
Drew
