My One Job

June 12, 2019.Reading time 6 minutes.

Over the years, stories birthed in a family become somewhat legend. There are some stories that are unpacked during holidays or when a certain person comes to visit. Then there are those go-to stories that we retell over and over because they bring smiles and/or grimaces. So it is with My One Job.

As the story goes, I had one job during each of my wife’s four deliveries: to get her to the hospital in time for an epidural. No problem with the first – her water broke and we loaded up the car and made it. Number two came quickly. In fact, I almost delivered her in the van. We were at the hospital for less than twenty minutes before she burst onto the scene. I was one for two with my one job. Due to that experience, we scheduled number three and had no issues. Then we were surprised with a fourth pregnancy and although doctors scheduled her birthday for a Monday, she decided she Sunday would be a better day to join the family.

I remember sitting by her bed when the doctor delivered the news that she was too far along for an epidural – the look of pain and anger on my wife’s face as she looked up at me and said, “You had one job!”

I am 2 for 4 with my one job.

A career at .500 gets you into the hall of fame if your a major–leaguer.

A weatherman would love to get it right 50% of the time.

When you’re the epidural chauffeur, 2 for 4 isn’t so good.

As fathers, our job is multi-faceted. We teach, prepare, equip, support, mend, share, and if we are lucky, we get to watch them grow up and flourish. If I had to pick one job that is principle, I would say it is to protect. When they were tiny newborns I was terrified of them. They were so small and my hands so big and clumsy. How was I supposed to keep these fragile beings safe from the scary world when in a few years of marriage I had already broken most of my wife’s china?

Being protector is an important job. It ranges from driving the family car in a safe manner to putting a filter on the internet so filth can’t get to them; from watching their surroundings on the playground to checking the deadbolts every night.

I failed in this too.

When our youngest was twelve, knee pain drove us to the emergency room where we received a cancer diagnosis. We fought. For ten months we fought with every bit of courage and strength we could muster. We even found some joy along the way. But it wasn’t enough. Kylie died just weeks from her thirteenth birthday and mashed alongside all the pain and grief is this annoying feeling that I am a failure in my principle job as a father. I had one job.

My love for Kylie began the moment I heard the flutter of her heartbeat, saw her shape on a sonogram, and held her tiny hand. I didn’t choose to love her with a clause that everything would always turn out okay. In this fallen world, that assurance was never in my control. As we get older, we learn that very little is actually in our control. My rational mind knows this but my heart often whispers accusations.

Some of you reading this likely hold some similar feelings. There are many men who have experienced child loss and even more people who have lost their father. Loss is loss and Father’s Day acts as a huge magnifying glass to it. This year will be my fifth without Kylie and it will be difficult.

On Sunday, while I can’t escape the feeling of guilt over my job performance, as much as is possible I will work to let that be overwhelmed by the love we shared for twelve years. I will also share the joy of fatherhood with my remaining children and attempt to prevent my grief from sullying that celebration. They deserve that much. I deserve that much.

If Sunday will bring with it some measure of grief, I would encourage you focus on the love that you had and that which remains. And remember… you aren’t alone. We’ll get through it together.

You Seem Happy

February 13, 2019.Reading time 6 minutes.

He looked across the small table at me, eyes filled with emotion and said, “You seem happy. How?”

The observation took me aback. I wish I had something clever or meaningful to say. I’m not sure exactly how I replied but I spent the next few days considering what I should have said. How? How can I be happy? Have I smoothed over the hole enough that I can be happy?

Today marks four years since I held Kylie for the last time. Four years since she breathed her last and I carried her lifeless body from our house. I remember standing at the edge of our driveway as the hearse pulled away on that cold February evening. I stared into the blue night watching steam rise with each breath – unable to shout, unable to move. Planted. Frozen with only one question rolling through my troubled mind: “What do I do now?”

Now.

Now with this unnatural thing that has happened.

What do I do now? What do I do to lead my family through this? What do I do now for my wife? What do I do now my children?

All nature seemed to listen to my question that night; silence its only reply. And it’s been silent ever since. Four years have come and gone – highs, lows, tears, smiles, joy, and pain. We’ve had graduations, gone on vacations, attended weddings, held babies, changed jobs… and I seem happy.

Seem.

Am I truly happy?

If I am happy, am I betraying her?

When I was a boy I was given a kaleidoscope. My grandfather showed me how to hold it to my eye and turn it in my hand to reveal beautiful colors in the light. I was enamored with it – constantly staring into its colorful ever-changing patterns and marveling at how it worked.

A kaleidoscope makes magic with light and mirrors. It is usually a tube containing two or more reflecting surfaces tilted to each other in an angle, so that objects on one end of the mirrors are seen as a regular symmetrical pattern when viewed from the other end, due to repeated reflection.

What speaks to me about kaleidoscopes is that if you don’t like the pattern you see, all you have to do is turn it to reveal another. And sometimes you turn from something stunningly beautiful thinking the next pattern will be even better and find yourself disappointed. But you can’t go back. Every pattern is unique and gone with the turn of the tube.

Since Kylie died, one of the most rewarding things I do is sit with other fathers dealing with either cancer treatment or devastating loss. It is both cathartic and emotionally draining. There is little advice to offer; mostly I listen. I want them to know that I’m still here; my family is still here – whether I’ve done this right or wrong, we’re putting one foot in front of another and waking up every morning. There is comfort in knowing you’re not alone. When I was a month out from her death, there were men who did this for me.

The statement I started this post with came from a coffee I had with a new friend – a dad who finds himself confronted with a dreadful situation few can imagine. I wish I had thought to tell him about kaleidoscopes when we talked because I am happy… sometimes. And sometimes I’m very sad. Most of the time the two are intertwined. They coexist together in my mood and temperament like those pieces of colorful glass. Often the shift from one feeling happens on its own and there are also times when I must work hard to shift the kaleidoscope when the pattern hurts too much.

Taking from the basic science of the device, we need a light source, mirrors, and colorful objects. When Kylie died, she became the light source for my life’s kaleidoscope. There are constant objects: my faith, my wife, Kylie’s sisters, friends, work, hobbies, and more. And there are objects that will enter anew: weddings, sons-in-law, and grandchildren she will never meet. Whatever enters my life will shine in the reflection of her light.

Am I happy? Yes, at times. I sense that she wouldn’t want anything less. But the colors are ever-fluid and shift into a pattern that might make me very sad or hurt seconds after I was happy. These conflicting emotions live together in a fragile pattern. Everything – all of it – is held up to her light.

And that’s just how it goes now.