The Unexpected Gift

Posted by Marlene in HandPrints Stories & Videos | 0 comments

I could not have guessed that my dad’s death would be the catalyst to begin a sharing circle among women. It is not something he or I, would have imagined. But sharing this legacy has profoundly touched other women’s lives.
My father was an old-fashioned family physician. He sported a bow tie, and for fifty-four years made house calls to generations of blue-collar working families. No one in need of his service was ever turned away. He often returned home with freshly baked Irish Soda bread or a sack of home-grown tomatoes, in lieu of cash payments. Dad devoted his life to his medical practice. Throughout his years of dedication, he kept a trunk full of thank you notes, and a passion for the work that sustained him until the day he could no longer climb the staircase to his office.

I knew that my father loved me. But for much of my life, I sensed an emotional distance that I compared with those stairs to his office: hard to climb, leading to a door that seemed open to his patients, yet often inaccessible to me. It took years for me to recognize that he and I had something very much in common; a fear of emotional vulnerability. Only as an adult, learning to climb that distance myself, was I able to unlock the door to my father’s heart.

It was Valentine’s Day, when at age eighty-two, my father lost his battle with Lymphoma. Initially, I missed the gentle stroke of his hand across the back of my hair as I walked past him. Later, it was his dry sense of humor during difficult times. What I remembered most, though, was his quiet, gentle strength. To this day I keep a bottle of his Old Spice cologne in a little box of memorabilia; and one of his signature polka-dotted bow ties.

My family mourned our loss together in our hometown, a suburb of Boston. Returning to my New York apartment, still grieving, I felt disconnected. None of my New York friends had known my father, and while their condolence calls were genuine, they couldn’t fill the void of his passing.

The following evening, my dear friend Lillian invited a small group of mutual friends to her home, allowing me an opportunity to share my loss. It was the bridge I needed to span my past and my present; my old home and my current one. The evening turned out to be a revelation for us all. Relating memories of my father, it became clear that he had been a kind and generous man: a light of hope, an example of stability and strength for countless people.

Of the many memories I shared that night, one in particular touched me deeply. I recalled my first plane ride from Boston to NYC, nine years old. I was terrified at the thought of flying, so Dad sat beside me. He gave me the window seat, and to calm my nerves during take off, he held my hand.

Just after the plane lifted, we looked down at the indistinguishable houses, toy-like cars, and treetops, wisps of clouds drifting by.

“Do you see all those people down there?” he asked. “Nothing means anything, unless you have someone who cares about you,” he said. “Everybody has his own set of problems,” his own ‘package’, he called it. “But if you have someone else to listen and to care, it makes life a whole lot easier.”

I never forgot his words. Years later, as he neared death, I was able to offer a small measure of what he had given to so many. Often, the greatest gift we can give someone is to simply be there, to listen without judgment. A compassionate heart can transcend words. Knowing that someone truly cares can make all the difference.

In the last few months of his life, I did my best to spend as much time with Dad as I could. I commuted from NYC to Boston for long weekend visits, watching painfully as he wrestled with terminal illness. One day, he was noticeably aloof and distant. Though the room was filled with family members, I sensed his isolation and despair.

When we were finally alone, I asked how he was feeling, and whether he was afraid to die. At first he was taken aback; apparently, no one else had broached the subject. That had been the problem! He admitted that he was exhausted by the struggle to maintain the façade of denial for everyone else. Because he was doing his best to be strong for his family, he had not allowed anyone to be there emotionally for him.

He broke down, and I held this frail, gentle man who had once been a tower of strength for so many, and allowed him to sob in my arms. Having admitted that he was frightened, the tension evaporated and I saw the relief in his face. We discussed our beliefs and ideas about life after death and shared in a way we had never done before.

Dad said he wasn’t sure if he believed in an afterlife. I told him that I did, and suggested that if he had trouble believing, he might try to remember that his father had been a very religious man. For now, perhaps, he could borrow some faith from past and future generations. He smiled, and we hugged.

I reminded him that he had led an amazing life, and that he had touched the lives of many people. He had graciously accepted from me what he had offered to his patients: someone to just listen, and to care. Now, it was my privilege to be that someone for him.

Later that evening my mother called to say, “I don’t know what you and your father talked about, but he said you gave him a ‘Tremendous Boost.’” Because my dad had allowed me to be there for him, he gave me a lasting gift. The protective shell encasing my own heart had dissolved.

Never had I felt more compassion, nor more open to my own humanity than in witnessing my father’s vulnerability. I knew then, that all his life he had been a healer. Thankfully, before his own death he had enabled himself to not only offer love, but to receive it, as well.

After sharing this with my women friends, there was stillness in the room. I had remembered my dad not from a place of loss, but from a place of gratitude. It no longer mattered that during my life my father had seemed emotionally distant. What mattered was that we had bridged that distance before he passed on.

My friends had gathered to console and comfort me. But by sharing from a place of acceptance and gratitude, I had touched each of them. They recalled their own fathers, and the handprints that remained on their hearts. We realized that we were more alike than different, and recognized that the willingness to share and to listen to each other without judgment had empowered us all.

Photo Old Spice by Rachel Hutton
Photo Bow Ties by shindoverse
Photo Single Tie by pearled
Photo Bridge by amalu007