My dad- my healthy-as-a-horse, scarcely-sick-a-day-in-his- life, people-mistake-us-for-brothers dad- was in the hospital last week, apparently the victim of some sort of infection which was causing him all sorts of trouble. He had a couple of recent procedures and it’s entirely possible that the infection sprang from that, but mostly this was a bewildering and frightening puzzle. I am so glad to say that my dad is feeling much better, is back home, and the array of symptoms that were causing such concern – very high fever, pulse anomalies, uncharacteristically high blood pressure – have abated. And this is good because it is very hard for me to wrap my head around the notion of my dad being seriously ill. Probably most sons have trouble with that unless they have a dad who has always been sickly and fragile, but my dad has been anything but that for as long as I can remember. And it’s entirely true that he and I have often been mistaken for brothers rather than father and son, which is not exactly a glowing endorsement for my youthful good looks. But really it’s because he has always worn his years easily and energetically, and over the last two decades I have hardly noticed a single sign of the encroachment of age. But last week’s scare was a sobering jolt.
For as serious as the situation was, it was not really anything immediately life-threatening. . . but there was no question but that I would somehow get myself to Madison. Ringing in my ears was something that Sonja said to me a few years ago when I asked what might be a good birthday present for my dad. She replied without hesitation- and I’m sure in complete sincerity- that the very best gift I could give him was my time. And I certainly cannot claim to have been as generous in that regard as I should have been, but I have thought about that a lot, and tried to do better. Because I would hate to look back someday with even more regret than I already feel about the choices I have made about my time.
So I cancelled my Thursday lessons and a radio interview, rented a car (my Honda is just a little too scary for that kind of a trip) and drove to Madison – picking up Nathan when I arrived – and walked into my dad’s room to find not only Sonja there, but also my sister Randi and my nieces Aidan and Anna. I was so glad to be there. And just over the course of that single day – from my arrival at about 12:30 to my departure around 5- it was remarkable to see my dad improve in his breathing, in the strength and steadiness of his voice, and in his clarity. By the time I left, he seemed so much like his old self, which was so gratifying to see – even to the point of waxing eloquently and at length about the parable of the prodigal son and some new insights he’s garnered just in his time in the hospital. And somehow in that moment I was reminded of what a blessing it is when the people we love remain who they really are even in their advancing years- versus the harsh reality of a loved one changing, sometimes drastically and so often in bewildering and troubling ways, to the point where you feel like this is an entirely new person laying before you, almost a stranger though the face and voice are familiar. But this was my dad, through and through- and I’m as thankful for that as I am for his recovery – and for Sonja’s tireless devotion to him- and for Randi’s professional vigilance. (If only every family could have a doctor right in their midst like the Bergs do!) And I’m grateful for everyone- from my wife to Carthage colleagues to friends- for encouraging me in the strongest possible fashion to make that trip to Madison for some precious time with my father.