Something I got from dad…

The love of science and seeing as he was a doctor, the science of medicine.  Dad would take the time to explain everything in words I would understand on how the body worked, and how disease impacted you, and how it was treated.

When I was a kid I spent many weekend hours going with dad on his hospital and nursing home rounds, and if a patient showed up in need of stitches or a broken bone I was standing there watching what he did as well. (of course with the patients approval first – if not I hung out in the doctors lounge at the hospital or sent off to do something else)

Your Brain Knows a Lot More Than You Realize

There is a looming chasm between what your brain knows and what your mind is capable of accessing. Consider the simple act of changing lanes while driving a car. Try this: Close your eyes, grip an imaginary steering wheel, and go through the motions of a lane change. Imagine that you are driving in the left lane and you would like to move over to the right lane. Before reading on, actually try it. I’ll give you 100 points if you can do it correctly.

The article above is really interesting as it delves into implicit and explicit memory.  Take the test and then see if you are right or not, it might surprise you.  My stroke caused me to lose bits of implicit memories – I could remember how to do things but part of the sequence of doing it was missing.   

Implicit memory appears to go further back than our explicit memory.  I found the video below and thought it would be of interest as he speaks about adoptees and implicit memory.

Child adaption & the role of implicit memory video by Dr. Gabor Maté from Vancouver, BC, Canada.

Dr. Gabor Maté website can be found here and includes a bio on him.  There are other youtube videos of him that are interesting as well if you do a search.

Thanks to dad I love science and can remember calling him for second opinions frequently.  My early exposure to his world helped me tremendously when I got sick because I had a general idea of what tests they were doing and why, and later I could research and get a concept of what had happened to me and that provided a lot of comfort and acceptance.

One of my prized possessions is the microscope dad used all those year taking care of people, and memories of him teaching me how to use it.  Of course that was when doctors processed a lot of their own tests…

 

The Courage to Talk About It

When adoptees talk about being sad, grieving the loss of their biological families, feeling angry, and in general other unpleasant feelings involved with being an adoptee, others, sometimes get nervous, feel uncomfortable, and avoid the topic. Sometimes, people will get defensive, feeling the need to point out what they see as the positives in adoption, while negating the not so positive aspects of adoption. Some people will even get angry at an adoptee, accusing the adoptee of being ungrateful, or unappreciative of what they have, with the attitude of, “How dare you!” It seems, that some people, when they read, or hear, of an adoptee expressing their feelings of grief, or anger, in regards to adoption, picture that adoptee as a miserable and unhappy human being, who needs to get a life, get over it, and be satisfied with what they have; the here and now. Then there are those, who will dismiss the not so pleasant feelings of an adoptee, by a judgment of that adoptee must have had a bad experience. If only it were all that simple.

As an adoptee, I’ve dealt with the issues, and attitudes, in adoption all of my life. I’ve had no choice in the matter, even as a child, when I didn’t consciously know that was what I was doing. I’ve faced in all of my families the different attitudes towards adoption, brought about by societies influence, and I’ve witnessed the pain it causes all of us, not just adoptees. I may not always feel happy about being adopted. I may even wish I had never been adopted from time to time, as a good majority of adoptees probably do. You see, being an adoptee is not an easy thing. Even adoptees, who seem to be blissfully happy, have to deal with, and face the not always so pleasant attitudes and feelings, surrounding adoption whether we want to, or not. The same goes for the others in the triad.

Whether we consciously admit it, or not, we don’t really have a choice. There always seems to be someone standing there, waiting to remind us that being an adoptee, adoptive parent, or first parent, makes us different from society’s view of what is normal. I believe this is the reason so many adoptees, those who search, those who don’t, those who talk about it, those who don’t, and, in general, most of us would say that we would rather not be an adoptee. We would have rather been born to one family, or the other family, and not transferred from one to the other. To put it as simply as possible, what we really want is to not have to deal with it at all; not have to balance the good against the not so good parts of adoption.

I cannot forget that I am an adoptee, any more than I can forget that I am now blind. There is no pretending otherwise, no real denying the fact of either. Doing so is, and has always been, a recipe for disaster and pain; one way or another, sooner or later. There is always something, or someone, to remind me of both facts. I was born to one family and raised by another. Once, I could see, and now I cannot. Nothing will change those facts in my life.

No one wants to hear an adoptee say that they don’t want to be adopted. No one likes to hear us talk about our grief, our feelings of loss, or our anger at being in such a complex, confusing, and yes sometimes frustrating situation. When we do talk about it, sometimes, what we say seems to hurt, in one way or another, everyone that loves us. Knowing that is a huge burden we, adoptees, bare, as best we can, even when we understand it isn’t really our burden to bear. We all handle it differently. Just knowing how our own feelings may hurt those we love, hurts us too, which is why most of us go to such lengths to protect those we love by keeping those feelings to ourselves, sometimes, at the expense of our own emotional well-being. As adoptees, it seems, no matter what we feel, we take the chance that our feelings are going to hurt, not only us, but those we love as well, and there isn’t really anything we can do about it, or to stop it, other than to stay silent.

When I started writing for this blog, I did it as an expression of myself. It was, and is, an outlet for my feelings about being an adoptee that had reunited with my maternal and paternal biological families, but I am not just an adoptee, I am also blind. The journey to find out who I am as an adoptee, and my journey to figure out who I am as a blind person, is so intertwined that I can’t tell one story without the other. You see, there is the me, born to D and E, and there is the me, adopted by J and W, just as, there is the me, who once could see, and the me, who now cannot. I am one person, with four different identities, trying to make them all one.

Reunion is difficult under the best of conditions, and my reunions were no different, having many extenuating circumstances that made things even harder. When I began writing for this blog my relationships with D, and E, were on hold. As my reunions had hit a road block for the time being, it was time for me to focus on my feelings, instead of worrying about others. In the beginning, with the exception of my husband, I hadn’t told anyone of my new hobby. I was doing this for my own benefit. It certainly would not be hard for anyone, who knows me on a more personal level, to figure out just exactly who “Shadow the Adoptee” really is, were they so inclined. I made it simple enough, part of me probably hoping they would.

I’ve made a strong effort to keep this about me, and my feelings, not about my family’s actions, attitudes, and the like. I did so for three reasons:

The first being that this is about me, a blind adoptee, and not so much my families.

The second reason was to protect my families from the scrutiny of people who have no idea what we have been through, do not understand, and would rather judge us than see what lay below the outside surface of the complicated circumstances of our lives, thus, putting the blame for my feelings on my families, instead of listening to what I was trying to say.

The third reason was to help others know they are not alone in their feelings, someone else understands it isn’t always easy, or pretty, and to put into words what so many disabled, and adopted, people would like to say, but, for whatever reason, cannot, in an attempt to help others understand us better.

Nothing is all good, or all bad, certainly not adoption, and, just for the record, neither is having a disability. No matter how hard people want to try to make it something it is not, adoption is what it is. None of us would be who we are today had adoption not touched our lives. That isn’t good or bad. It just is. Saying it is one or the other will only cause pain for someone. Acknowledging, accepting that it is simply, both goes a long way to easing the grief, the loss, the pain, and, once again, for the record, the same can be said for a disability.

D, my Dad, the one who passed to me my green eyes, dark hair, a curious nature, and a zest to experience life to its fullest, recently came for a visit. We’ve survived the first year of our second attempt at reunion, which, by the way, makes it a true reunion in every sense. We’ve overcome a lot in the past year. It’s still hard at times, but in a different way now; still so many emotions popping up from time to time.

A while back, I had shared with him one of my posts, “I Cannot Deny It”. He had asked to see more, but I wasn’t ready to share everything, as my first few posts here on the blog, were written about him.

As I mentioned above, like many adoptees, I was afraid sharing such intimate feelings was going to hurt him, but more so afraid of opening up, and trusting him with such intimate parts of myself. During this visit, he, once again, asked if he could read the blog. This time, I agreed.

I have to admit, I was a little concerned as to just what he might think when he reads our blog. He is a bit new to all the not so pretty things about adoption. Facing the fact that you have a daughter, who was placed for adoption and is also blind, when she shows up 40 years later, will do that to a guy. He is beginning to see, for himself, all the things society tried to hide all those years ago. He’s feeling a lot of the same things other natural/first/birth parents feel, and wish they didn’t have to feel, the same as we adoptees wish we didn’t have to feel. It’s kind of hard not to, when your life is suddenly so intimately affected by adoption. I know it’s not easy for any of us, and sharing such intimate feelings is a frightening thing. Reading the intimate feelings of the one you reunited with can be just as scary, especially when that person is as opinionated as the likes of me.

Most of my family now know that I blog. They know it’s about adoption. Most, who know me well, know that if you don’t want to know my opinion, don’t ask. I give D credit for asking, and it means a lot to me that he did. Welcome Dad, to our blog. I hope when you read, you will feel free to talk about it with me, disagree with me, laugh with me, cry with me, scream with me, learn with me, and most of all grow with me. For those of you reading, I want you to know that along with the sad things, and difficult feelings, I’ve written about, there are many happy things, and feelings, I haven’t shared as yet. You see, it’s not all bad, and it’s not all good. It just is what it is, my life.

 

Cautionary tale about reading old letters…

I am the one in my family who is fascinated by researching family lines – my dads is one of my favorites because I heard stories about many of the ancestors I research.  I spend countless hours researching for the smallest clue and follow any trail I find. 

Awhile ago I was given an envelope containing the last of my grandpa’s papers – dad’s dad.  I eagerly sifted through the contents, reading the different correspondence, looking at wills, pictures, reading stories.  I was in research heaven and was really happy to find it also contained a series of letters written about creating the family tree between grandpa and another relative.  Each letter contained precious information that validated and confirmed details, as well as snippets of general chit-chat any letter would have between relatives.  I was transported back to the era of when I was a small child, and the events that were happening at a time I was too young to understand – until I came to the part of one letter where my grandpa was telling about how all his grandchildren were doing good, all grown up and having children…

It has bothered me more than I would imagine and I think what it boils down to is I am mad that he could do that to my dad who took care of him till the end…mad…mad…and incredibly sad.  For myself not so much, more of a twinge and reality check and because quite simply, biologically my siblings and I were not his grandchildren.  But it would have hurt my dad to have his dad be that way about his children, and they were all frank speakers so the words would have been said.  Dad did not deserve that.

 

Lucky…

The only time I ever remember my dad telling me I was lucky happened when he was in his 9th decade of life, yes, he was in his 90’s and it’s not what you think…

I have written many posts referring to my dad.  To this day dad was and is my hero…he lived his life based on his principles of ethics, morals, and fair play and never deviated from his beliefs, regardless of the cost to him.

When I started getting sick I was misdiagnosed because I had always been exceptionally healthy and I was outside of the normal age range for heart problems and lacked the normal risk factors.  That misdiagnosis kept me from going to the hospital when I had my heart attack.  Not surprisingly less than a week later a large blood clot had developed in my heart and a piece broke off, went to my head and I had a stroke.  That sent me to the hospital for 11 days and countless doctors coming to see me while they tried to figure out WHY I had a heart attack to begin with because I had none of the usual risk factors, no road map of my family history to follow, plus they needed to get me stable enough to have an angio which finally gave them the rare disease diagnosis…(side note it is amazing how many times I am listed as “ADOPTED” at the top of the various hospital documents and NO FAMILY MEDICAL HISTORY is stated)…

Mom came to see me in the hospital and when I got home, but dad could not come because mom could not transport him by herself and I lived in another country, so all dad could do was hear how I was from her.  It was really tough on him to not be able to see me and assess the level of damage as a physician, and only have a non-medical person telling him how I seemed.  Very frustrating compounded by my inability to speak very much so that meant phone calls were limited to how are you feeling today type discussion.

After I got home I could barely function.  I was still struggling to put two words together, let alone a sentence.  If I took a shower I had to take a nap.  If I did anything I had to nap.  It was ridiculous how weak I was.  Gradually week by week I could do more but I still could not drive until the neurologist said I was okay.  It took time, months, before I was strong enough to consider going to see dad, and then I had to wait until I had been out of the hospital for 3 months to have medical coverage in a different country.  Finally I was approved and my friend came up to get me because I was still not allowed to drive.  

I will never forget that day, almost 4 months after I had my heart attack.  I walked into the house and dad looked at me from his chair by the window and carefully assessed me as I walked over to him his first words were YOU ARE A VERY LUCKY GIRL to have survived a heart attack and a stroke, most people don’t…and I said I know, and handed him all the consult letters, test results, and a published article on my rare disease.  Dad sat quietly reading and re-reading all the details and then asked me a few questions about my health and what the doctors would do to take care of me, and only then was he satisfied and you could see he visibly relaxed. 

I cannot imagine what he went through not being able to be there for me as he had always been, simply because his body had finally let him down.  He has passed on now and I miss him every day.  But also realize he was ready to go before I got sick, and that it was his sheer determination to survive that he stayed longer than he should have, just to make sure I was going to be okay. 

I also realize I am very lucky to have had him as my dad…  

 

Loyalty…

The feelings of loyalty I feel (and expect others feel to different degrees) can play a significant role in how we talk about our adoption experience.  My feelings of loyalty exist outside of and within the feelings I have for mom and dad.

When I was young I often thought of my other mother but not so much my father.  I also had the typical childhood fantasy dream of which I won’t bore you with, except to say one distinct landscape detail turned out to be true…strange because it was always the starting point of my childhood fantasy that never changed, and I must conclude it was part of my remembered experience inside my mother’s womb.

But I never shared my fantasy dream with mom or dad.  I never brought it up.  I never talked about the feelings of loss.  The feelings of not being good enough.  The feelings of being fatally flawed in a way others could see that I could not. 

I never brought any of feelings up because of what I can now as an adult identify as feelings of loyalty.  Loyalty to a mom and dad who were great parents.  I knew or thought I knew that bringing any of those feelings up would hurt them and I never wanted to do that.  I wasn’t willing to do that, ever.

Now I realize that they could have dealt with my feelings simply because they had the ability to look at the reality, that it would be normal for me to feel that way.  They had the strength of character to recognise that those feelings of loss had no bearing on how I felt about them.  They would not have been harmed if I had talked about it.  To them my love for them was enough, and that they would have felt my feelings were valid and okay to have.

I don’t think they could have done anything different to get me to talk to them about my innermost feelings.  I had simply decided not to go there and apparently I can be stubborn about things like that.  I also think that although they never gave me any reason to feel that way, I felt the need to be good so I would not be sent away from this family too.  That feeling of being abandoned once (no matter what the reality was) added to the unconscious feelings of loyalty, as the basis for my insistence that I wasn’t going to go there.

Anytime we talked about being an adoptee the questions I would ask would be phrased in words designed to imply simple benign curiosity, not from feelings of loss.

So, just because your child may not show any feelings of loss don’t pat yourself on the back about how you have helped your child grieve their loss and move on or that it really has never bothered your child to be adopted…they could simply just be like me…or perhaps any other adoptee you know in real life who tells you they are  okay with being an adoptee (which is probably true)…unless you are actually in their head and soul you will not know the whole truth and nothing but the truth – only the portion of their truth that they want you to know. 

 

Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind

I was 21 when I was finally diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa. The agency had informed my parents that I might need glasses as I grew older, but I’ve often wondered if they told all adopting parents that sort of thing. The agency had told my parents the same thing about my brother, whom they had adopted two years earlier. My brother’s eyesight had always been perfect, up until recently, when in general, just getting older can be the cause for needing glasses. I, on the other hand, was around the age of 4, or 5, when it became apparent that eyeglasses were going to become an important part of my life.

I still remember those hideous, coke bottle thick, horn-rimmed, horrid glasses. Oh, how I hated them, but without glasses, I couldn’t see past my nose. I was far-sighted, with a lazy eye, which the glasses were supposed to correct. They did their job, but no one, for the first 21 years of my life could have ever imagined the depths of my eye problems.

I had gone in for my annual eyeglass exam. I had been complaining about the trouble I was having seeing at night and in dark places. I hadn’t really thought it was anything serious, or something to be too concerned with. I had only mentioned it out of curiosity. My optometrist suggested I do a field vision test, so I did. When he came back into the room with the results, he hadn’t seemed too concerned, but suggested I see an ophthalmologist about my problem.

I made the appointment, and off I went, with no concern that this could be something serious. I had been bumping into things all my life. I probably just needed stronger glasses, or maybe, as my dad kept saying, “It’s those contacts.” He never believed putting something directly on your eye was a good thing. My Father drove me to the ophthalmologist office, where I was given another field vision test and several other tests. We were sitting in the exam room calmly waiting for the doctor to come back with the results, never expecting the blow that was about to come.

The doctor came in, sat down on his stool, and in a very matter of fact voice began with his diagnosis. I don’t remember word for word what he said. It doesn’t matter, because the following is what stuck in my head. “You have retinitis pigmentosa.” then something about going blind, and “There’s no treatment or cure. It’s hereditary, and you should probably never have children.” He added something about wanting me to go see a specialist and left the room to have his assistant get me the information so I could make an appointment.

When you are a 21-year-old, single, female, just out on her own, with your own apartment, and your whole life ahead of you, the words retinitis pigmentosa, blind, no cure, no treatment, hereditary, no children, and specialist, are not words that fit comfortably into the world, as you know it. I tried to hold back the tears, but it was useless. I cried. What else can a person do when they get news like that? I looked at my father. I never, not once, in my life, had ever seen him, or ever would see him cry. That day, sitting there with me, he came about as close as I had ever seen him come to crying. I’ll never forget that look on his face as we sat there alone in the exam room, neither of us able to speak.  My father never said a word. He didn’t have to. The look on his face said it all and I found comfort in his presence there. I gathered strength from his silence, and stopped my tears. There were a lot of times in my life, when, where my dad was concerned, words just weren’t needed. This was one of them.

Words like stunned, shocked, and disbelief, just can’t do justice in describing my feelings upon hearing the diagnosis I had just been given. Traumatized? Yes, that sums it up nicely, and in reaction to the trauma, I kicked into survival mode. I just wanted to get out of there. As soon as the doctor returned, I took the information and without a word between us, my father and I left without asking any questions, inquiring further about just exactly what retinitis pigmentosa was, or what to do about it. We just left, both of us too dazed to do anything else.

As my Dad drove me back to my apartment, we didn’t really talk. What was there to say? He asked if I wanted to go to the specialist. I told him no. I saw no need to go to more doctors, who would just tell me the same thing. There was no cure, and no treatment. I was surprised when he said he understood and would support me what ever I decided. That was that. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I just wanted to put it behind me, and forget. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

Along with my curious, independent, impatient, and tenacious, nature, I suppose, it would not be too much of a stretch to say that, at times, I am also a wee, tiny, bit stubborn. My husband calls that part of me hard-headed. I, myself, prefer the term strong-willed to either stubborn or hard-headed. Needless to say, that particular part of my nature kicked into full gear. I was 21 years old, independent, and strong. A little bad news like the fact that I had a hereditary eye disease that might cause me to go blind wasn’t going to stop me. So what if my eyesight wasn’t perfect. So what if I had to stop driving at night. I didn’t like driving at night anyway. I could do everything I needed to do during the day. Couldn’t I? Besides, my friends, and family, almost always volunteered to drive whenever we went somewhere. (Side Note: I wonder why? Lol) what was being diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa really going to change in my life? Was it really any big deal? I wasn’t blind. I just couldn’t see all that well.

Because I am an adoptee, some of you might be wondering, if finding out I had a hereditary eye disease, and hearing a doctor tell me that I should “not have children” might trigger something in my mind in regards to my biological family? You might be wondering if such a thing would make me want to search for my birth parents? I wish I could say yes, but even finding out my genetics were a bit defective, the thought of finding my biological family, never crossed my mind. As an adoptee from the closed records era, I think, somehow, it had become so ingrained in my mind that I would just never know my biological family; I just couldn’t make the connection between the word hereditary, the importance of my medical history, and my biological family. Maybe, I had just always accepted that I would never know? What would it change anyway? Most of all, at that particular time, I just didn’t want to think about it, any of it.  I was 21, and had plenty of time to, what I don’t know, but whatever it was, I had plenty of time for it.

Finding out I had RP, short for retinitis pigmentosa, meant nothing to me at the time, and yet, it would mean everything to me in time. Obviously, I couldn’t totally ignore the fact that RP had not affected my life in any way, but I didn’t have to think about it. Did I? God bless denial. It can truly be a wonderful thing when you’ve just been told you have a hereditary eye disease that will, someday, cause the loss of your sight, and that there is no cure or treatment. As the saying goes, “out of sight, out of mind”, pun completely intended, in every way.

 

Animal people or non-animal people…

With all the different types of people in the world who all hold different views on religion, politics, environment, lifestyle, what really determines who you connect too?  I have been examining who I inherently get along with and who I don’t.  It isn’t as nearly as simplistic as the title but I think it plays a larger role than I previously gave it credit for.

In retrospect, I have always tended to gravitate to people who have animals in their life for the sake of having an animal.  Not people who ‘own pets’ but people who need animals to be in their life.  I do see a different mindset between some ‘pet owners’ and having animal share your life and I am not sure I can adequately explain the difference.  It could simply be because of how my dad viewed animals (and perhaps passed on those feelings onto me or simply because we were of similar souls) and how animals were always part of our family, both those who shared our home and those (the wild animals/birds) who shared our yard.  I don’t have an animal for any other reason that it is what I need, rather than when people simply get a ‘pet’  that is there for their convenience and benefit, i.e. it is good for our child to have a dog and learn to be responsible in caring for the dog.  Or a dog is good to ensure I walk regularly, or to protect our home and the dog has their rug by the door when/if they are inside.  Or simply because everyone has a dog in my circle so I need one to mentality. 

When I was a child our very small dog became friendly with the neighbors dog who was two or three times bigger and (gasp) got pregnant.  Dad stayed close during the delivery and when the last pup had trouble, dad took over because it had been too long.  I will never forget dads face when he realized the puppy wasn’t breathing or the automatic reaction he had of giving mouth to mouth resuscitation to that  tiny puppy.  It seemed like he worked on her for hours and mom kept telling him to let the pup go, but eventually dad’s determination paid off and then he gently laid her down with the other pups to be cleaned and then nursed by our dog the mom.  Dad delivered many babies during his years as a doctor and it was amazing to see this side of him and his reverence for birth.  It was also a very apt time to discuss the birds and the bees with a vivid description of the outcome.  I remember when I went into labor and my cat did something that she had never done before, I had been laying down trying to get comfortable and suddenly she came and laid down, aligned her body around the curve of my belly, as if to absorb the pain inside of mine and she never moved, simply lay there purring and absorbing the contractions happening inside my belly.  She never left my side that day and when I went to the hospital I missed that calming presence by my side.  Years later after I got sick and my dog (only a puppy really) laid on my bed next to me, day in and day out she continued her faithful watch, days turned into weeks and somehow she knew I needed her to keep my spirits up.  I would wake up and she would hover over me wagging her tail.  I would start to drift off and she would lay back down and nap, just content to be by my side.  My bond with my animals transcends the boundaries of those who just ‘own pets’, and the reality is that I know that my existence that would be less than, without any of the animals I have had the privilege of having by my side throughout my life. 

Looking back at all my friendships over the years, the ones closest to me share my same thoughts on animals.  Their animals share the couch and heart, they worry about them when they are away from home.  They include their animals needs when choosing where and what type of dwelling inter-mixed with their needs before they make a decision on buying or renting a new home.  They are part of the family, not additions to, or simply the current must have because all their friends have one.

Not having animals in my life would make life less than…what about you?

 

He was “Dad” to me and “Doc” to all…

Dad was simply “Doc” to many people in our community.  He was “Doc” 24/7 literally.  He did not have days or nights off except for 2-3 weeks in the summer when another doctor took his care of his patients and then dad took care of his patients in return so each could take a well-earned rest or the odd long-weekend to go visit family. 

Dads day (generally) started with breakfast with the family and sometimes we were able to get through the meal without a phone call or two from a patient.  After breakfast dad would grab his doctors bag and head off to the hospital for morning rounds and some mornings he would visit both hospitals or stop by a nursing home as well, seldom did he not have at least one patient to visit.  After the hospital, hospitals, and/or nursing home he would return in time to be in the office by 9 or 9:30 am and the steady stream of patients (and performing the lab tests as well) he would see that day (some scheduled / some not) and his day (in the office) ended when the last patient had been seen and we thought 6 pm was an early day for dad.  Dad would climb the stairs, wash up and we would then have our second meal of the day together as a family, each describing their day, what they did, what they learned, and that included dads day (minus identifying info of course).  Dinner together was mandatory but it was also shared with dads patients, and if we got through a meal maybe only 3 or 4 phone calls from patients it was amazing. 

After dinner dad would watch the news and read the paper for maybe a half hour and then if he did not have any home calls to go on and it was summer time, he was out tending the yard, flower beds, or his precious vegetable garden until it was too dark to see what he was doing.  Dad produced the majority of the food we consumed which mom preserved for the long winter months.  But dad loved gardening and provided him with his only real chance to get excercise and reduce his stress and to refresh his soul from a world filled with sorrow and sickness.  Too often though that world intruded and the phone would ring, mom would call for him out the window and he would come up from the garden to take the call.  Sometimes those calls were just calls for advice but other times it turned into someone arriving to be seen after hours in the office or dad grabbing his bag hurrying out on an emergency home call. 

Some nights dad got to go to bed and sleep till morning, other nights he would get a phone call and would either get up and in head off to the office to patch up whoever had been in an accident, head out to the patients home usually to deliver a baby or head into the hospital to deliver a baby.  Dad did not practice medicine 8 hours a day, he practiced medicine 24 hours a day – and that included weekends – people don’t get sick or have babies on a schedule.  It was normal for dad to be seen sleeping in church, especially if he had delivered a baby the night before.  Dad was his patients “Doc” and people relied on him to be there for them when they needed him, regardless if they could pay their bills, paid with cash or what they had to trade. 

Todays Doctors (heaven help you if you use Doc instead of Doctor) just don’t seem to measure up to dad, a shallow comparison at best. 

Dad also managed to always be there for us kids and if we needed to talk to him during the day he took the time between seeing his patients.  On weekends I would go with him on his hospital rounds, depending on who the patient was and why they were in hospital I would either go with him into the room or waited for him in the waiting room but those trips to the hospital was ‘our time’.  Nursing home visits were also part of our routine if he had not managed to squeeze them in his rounds during the week.  Once his doctoring duties were taken care of we returned home and I could usually be found playing near where dad would be digging, planting, weeding, tilling, mowing, trimming, harvesting, pruning and at the same time teaching me, being my dad, schooling me in the wisdom of just being the best human being you possibly can and that included helping people when they needed help – not just when it was convenient…

Doctors and Dads of today could learn a lot just by trying to follow in the footsteps of this man I knew only as Dad…

I miss you dad.