‘There was this Guy’

By Sherry Larson

People’s Defender

So, there was this Guy. That was his name, but I called him “Daddy.” And like many of you who adore your Dads, I thought mine was the best.

He was a sweet and kind man who studied the scriptures daily. Evidently, in his youth, he was mischievous. I didn’t know him then, but I see him in his sons and grandsons, and I can imagine. Oh, I can imagine. He loved sports and was passionate about fishing, which he passed down to my brother and a few grand and great-grandchildren.

He coached Little League and was that coach who made sure every player had equipment and father“figure” to look up to. My siblings and I didn’t mind sharing our folks with others. Indeed, they were worth sharing. They were foster parents before and after we left the nest, and countless children grew to know and love them as Nanny and Pappy.

Sensitivity was always a strength of his. He and my mother spent their lives helping and loving others (especially children). He was a bleeding heart and taught me the importance of being aware and empathic about the human condition.

He lived life with a passion. He could power through almost any illness to attend a ballgame or a school board meeting. He was enthusiastic about politics, religion and the rights of children and the oppressed. I’ve witnessed him red-faced, advocating for the rights of others. I’ve felt pride that exists only in those who see someone they love upholding those on the margins. I held onto his words about rights, freedom, Jesus’ love and the importance of giving. I watched him and my Mom show mercy and forgiveness to those I thought did not deserve it. They lived grace.

I’ll never forget his phone call to me to tell me, as he put it, “I have a little bit of the cancer.” He was calm, almost pleasant, and I knew that was strictly for my benefit. He tried to be strong, yet his fear was palpable even over the phone.

They say that when a patient hears the word “cancer,” they hear nothing else after it. Cancer changes things. Like the cells themselves, life goes from normal to abnormal, and cancer invades every aspect of your being and your family. A prognosis was given, prayers were said, books were read, internet research was done, questions were asked and an ATTACK was planned. I thought I had prepared myself for my Dad, having been diagnosed with cancer. I had not prepared myself for the turnabout in roles we were about to face. My fierce father, who was always ready for an introspective debate, the well-read man who gave me grit and went head-to-head with me on more than one occasion, the man I looked up to and admired, the man who loved me so very well, would now look to me for guidance and reassurance.

My sister and sister-in-law were the most active in his treatment and taking him to doctor appointments and chemotherapy. Living several hours away, I came home for the “big stuff,” like hospitalizations and removing him from hospitalizations. My sister calls me the “mean one.” So, anytime someone had to be firm – that someone was me. I want to think I am outspoken and a little stubborn, like my Daddy, and not necessarily mean, but at the end of the day, someone must wear the hat.

Mom said Daddy would walk around the house saying, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” I couldn’t have agreed more. During a hospitalization about six months after his diagnosis, we felt sure we would lose him. We were able to work out plans to have him moved to another hospital where my niece worked. It was him and me waiting for the transfer. He was so pitiful, all curled up in a fetal position. I realized then the meaning of the phrase “shell of a man.” This man couldn’t be my Daddy, weak and without much fight. But he rebounded, and the cancer was undetected. For one year, we enjoyed a respite from the cancer sentence. And then, we were back.

It was him and me again in a hospital room, but this time, he was sitting up and talking. I told him everything I had researched and explained everything we would do to keep him with us. He looked up at me from his seated position on the bed and said, “I believe everything you tell me.” Nothing could have prepared me for those six words. I excused myself and walked out of the room, barely reaching the corridor before the tears fell. “No – Daddy – no! I believe everything you tell me. It’s not supposed to be like this.” My “go-to” guy put me in the driver’s seat, and I didn’t want to be there. My research and good intentions would not keep my sweet Daddy here.

A couple of days before his 80th birthday, Daddy suffered a stroke and was hospitalized. His birthday came, and we celebrated his life, hoping that he could hear the songs we played for him, the prayers we said for him and the words of love we spoke to him. Four days later, he was gone.

In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis wrote, “The death of a loved one is an amputation.” I must agree. I can still feel him, but I can’t touch him. This Guy was remarkable, and I was privileged to call him daddy. He taught me about life, humility, and vulnerability and trusted me to pass on the lesson. He was one heck of a guy.