Happy Birthday, Dad

My father was born during the blizzard of 1950. He was my grandmother’s first baby, and she went into labor during the middle of the biggest snow storm in 50 years. My grandfather left to fetch the doctor who was a considerably smaller man than my grandfather. To get through snow that covered the tops of the mailboxes, my grandfather carried the doctor on his back most of the way home. it was a rough beginning that would set the stage for the rest of my dad’s life.

Family Life

Grandma went on to have four more little bundles of joy after my dad, but life at home was not all sugar and rainbows. Grandma was clinically depressed, and grandpa was angry- all the time. Throw in a little old-fashioned generational dysfunction and abuse for a sensitive, sweet little boy, and the end result is more than a little disturbing.

Running Away and Looking for Love

My dad spent most of his life seeking relief from the emotional torment that haunted him. Like so many other walking wounded, he joined the military the day he turned 18, just to get away from home. He was shipped overseas to repair aircraft fighting in the Vietnam War.

He came home four years later a little taller and whole lot angrier. He sought relief in drugs, alcohol, sex, and eventually the church. He met a tall, thin beauty with a quiet demeanor at the beach and asked her to marry him. She said yes, and they were married in February of the following year.

Happily Ever After?

If this were a fairy tale world, this story would end with “and they rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after.”

But in real life, they were very young and a baby came along a little too early, weighing in at just over 3 pounds. Work was hard to find, and they were so poor that year that the only thing they had to put under the Christmas tree was a tiny baby girl. Me.

Birthday Wishes

My mother recently told me a story that changed the way I viewed my father. I was born 6 weeks early. I was underweight and couldn’t regulate my own body temperature. My mother said they had to stand me on my head to keep warm and no one was allowed to hold me. I had to stay in the protective warmth of the incubator.

The first person to hold me was my father. One of the nurses sneaked him into the NICU and let him hold me- because it was his birthday and that was all he wanted.

Looking Back

My dad is gone now. This would have been his 58th birthday.

Years of hard living, alcohol and drugs, and too many love interests took their toll on his body. He died this spring. There weren’t many people at my dad’s memorial service, even a few close family members found better things to do that day.

But despite all the awful things he said and did, and all the pain he caused in his 57 years of life, he was still loved by a few; those who could see past the gruff exterior and harsh words to the boiling pain beneath them. Those who could still see that sensitive little boy who never asked for a life of pain and misery, learned to love him as a beloved creation of God.

Happy Birthday, Dad. We miss you.