The other day I was driving cautiously down Lincoln Boulevard on my way to my summer internship in LA, when the No. 1 song emanating from the radio gave way to a series of commercials -- for auto insurance, Chili's, CVS pharmacy... I barely noticed them. Then a soft, almost whispery female voice spoke to me: If you called your dad today, what would you tell him? Would you tell him you miss him or that you hope you make him proud? Would you thank him for everything he's given you? Would you tell him that no matter how grown up you are, you still go to him for guidance? This Father's Day, send your dad a Hallmark card to show just how much you care.
It gave me the chills, not only because it was kind of creepy, but more so because it served as a sad reminder of a holiday that I would not be celebrating... again... not only this weekend but in the years that will follow. I imagined hundreds of other drivers also tuned in to the hit radio station on their morning commutes, who were kicking themselves for forgetting that Father's Day was coming up, making mental notes of the cards they would write and the gifts they would buy. For them the commercial was just like any other -- totally innocuous, if a little weird. It wasn't loaded with an emotional weight that they couldn't identify. I wasn't sure what kinds of feelings it roused within me. I have to admit I was surprised to find myself feeling anything, for while losing my father to colorectal cancer in 1998 wasn't easy, living without him for the past 14 years has been easier, made manageable by the fact that his absence has become the norm in our household, all my sister and I have ever really known.
Though we suffered that devastating loss at a young age (I was six, my sister only two), we have also been very fortunate to have been brought up by a strong, supportive, and loving mother whose friends and coworkers, both male and female, have and continue to serve as positive role models. Likewise our grandparents and extended family, especially our mother's father, always took an active interest in our lives. I remember my grandpa calling me to ask when my next Latin test was -- luceat lux vestra, or "let your light shine!" he used to say -- and to congratulate me on my first article in the high school's newspaper. He and my mother taught us the importance of hard work, humor, and of never losing one's sense of self in the face of adversity, whether it came in the form of a bad grade, a bully, or a failed attempt to secure a fellowship. Most importantly, they embodied resilience.
Needless to say, we did not want for attention, love, and guidance. But the experience of loss is one of immense complexity. And like most, I've learned that the mourning ritual -- the funeral ceremony, the eulogies, the tears, the music, the burial, the lilies, the reception, the casseroles, the milestones... be they week-long Shivas or graveside anniversaries -- only compartmentalizes grief, it does not cure it. As Joan Didion once wrote, "Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be... Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life."
There are moments where I crumble at the thought of my father, often unexpectedly. I dread the annual father-daughter dance both in grade school and now in my sorority, a tradition my mother tried to abolish on behalf of all the fatherless daughters in my school... to no avail. One year I asked my Mom if Brad Pitt could be a stand in... Matt Lauer was a distant second. I ultimately decided to stay home. At major life events, like graduations and weddings, my Dad's absence is particularly palpable. As I happily immersed myself in a college course called Civil War and Reconstruction, I longed to talk to him about the Battle of Shiloh, Robert E. Lee, John Brown and Joshua Chamberlain. He loved history and the Civil War was his particular passion. He even has the letter box Joshua Chamberlain received when he became president of Bowdoin College. Because my Dad was a criminal defense attorney, I would love to talk with him about famous trials and whether I should go to law school. I wish we could talk... about anything. These are fleeting moments, a reminder like an aching joint that flares up now and then, but they bring me a deep sense of sadness, one tinged with regret. Like the feeling you have when you sleep in all day and wake up to a gorgeous sunny afternoon. There is a sense of lost time, of a million happy moments that have long slipped away.
Faced with loss, most people retreat, regroup. Not my mother. Somehow, she summoned the strength to turn my father's death into something more significant -- a mission to ensure that other families don't suffer the same fate. My childhood was punctuated with bake sales and lemonade stands for colon cancer research. It really wasn't until I was nine or 10 that I realized my mother was engaged in awareness efforts that went well beyond our block. Through her work with the Entertainment Industry Foundation, she's raised $36 million to increase awareness and research in the fight against colon cancer. She also established the Jay Monahan Center at New York-Presbyterian Hospital. But that wasn't enough. Along with several other women she says were equally "pissed off" about the pace of progress in cancer research, she started a grassroots movement called Stand Up To Cancer. In four short years, the public and other donors have pledged more than $180 million to fund a new paradigm for cancer research, conducted by teams of scientists working together to get new therapies to patients quickly.
Being a part of this work and just witnessing my Mom's commitment has not only helped restore me to "the dailiness of life," it has given mine greater meaning. So while I won't be able to celebrate Father's Day with a card for my Dad, a tie he may never wear or a hamburger he's masterfully grilled, I will think of him this Sunday. And I will be thinking of dads everywhere enjoying their kids as well as good health, knowing my father's death has saved perhaps more than a few lives. Â Â Â
This Father's Day launch a star in honor of someone you love at su2c.org
I knew your mom from my days at UNICEF. Yes, she's pretty incredible.
"You don't get over grief. You just move through it." From all that you wrote, you are moving through it with grace.
Best to you.
Nancy Sharp
www.VividLiving.org, NancySharp.net
On Father's Day the sermons and welcome comments were all about Fathers with little mention about those without or even those whose fathers were not far from the stellar saints people seem wont to turn all men who have given life to children.
Raising a father less child is no easy feat for mothers but how much more difficult it is for the children who are without the love and strength and stature of that primary man Father.
What a heartfelt, wonderful article you wrote and shared.
Though we do not have control, we do have choices . One can choose darkness, fear or despair, or one can choose light, hope and joy. Your mom chose light , hope and joy. Grief takes attention,patience and courage, all of which your mother has. In turn she parented her two daughters well.
We learn to live with our grief. Sometimes the sadness is particularly evident when we celebrate a birthday or holiday, or anniversary or it catches one by surprise in the midst of the most routine activities as it caught you driving to your internship.
When we lose a loved one , fear is one of the strongest emotions we feel, fear for our safety and our basic security , fear about what will happen to our family .
Your Mom's commitment has helped saved MANY more than a few lives.
I remember watching the show When Families Grieve and hearing your mother share that she asked friends and family to write letters to her, so that she would stories to share with you and your sister. I hope that those letters helped you learn more about your dad.
Stephanie Muldberg
I lost my Dad to Non Hodgkins Lymphoma. I miss him every day. Your beautiful piece captured so many of the thoughts and feelings I have had. I loved the part where you said "There is a sense of lost time, of a million happy moments that have long slipped away." I have felt that emotion so many times but have never been able to articulate it so eloquently. Thank you and God Bless You.
My new husband and I started The New Day Foundation for Families to help young families affected by cancer. With so many amazing organizations like SU2C funding research, we decided to help people in more practical ways, providing practical resources, financial assistance and other related services that will make their burden just a little lighter. This work is my joy and passion. I often wonder if the charitable work we do is something our children will grow to appreciate, value and hope to carry forward, or if they will rather distance themselves from it. I fear that while our work is honorable, perhaps it is a constant reminder of the tragedy that impacted their young lives. Your article gives me hope for the former!
In addition, we wrote a book called "The Color of Rain" and were privileged to talk about it on the Today Show last October. Sharing our story of hope has been a remarkable blessing that has humbled us beyond measure.
Today you have given me, and likely many others, an unexpected gift. Thank you!
I hope that my children can look to you as an example of how to overcome and succeed through grief.
This will be the first fathers day without Daddy and it is pretty rough, but we will visit him at the cemetery and tell stories of him during the day. I hope that it is a small tribute to a great man.
Again thank you for sharing your story with us all. Here is to you and the amazing woman that you are!
Hopefully people will read what your wrote and realize just how lucky they are to have their fathers still in their lives and not complain or feel inconvenienced that they have to run out and get that Father's Day card or that present...what you and I wouldn't give to have to take time out of our day to find that perfect card or tie that he would never wear!
Your father would be proud!
Kathleen
www.kathleenfordyce.com/