I wrote this in July of 2021. Chief Joe — my dad — had just given us a scare, and I flew home to Tampa to be with him and mom. I’m sharing it now because they just left. Ten days. Ten days of Chief Joe and mom here with Grace, Lizzy, and me — massaging my hands and feet, feeding me, giving Grace a break wherever they could, filling the room with stories and laughter, easing my heart and my mind in ways that only parents can. Watching them love on Lizzy. Watching them love on us. I didn’t want them to leave. This memory came rushing forward the moment they drove away — because some stories don’t wait for the right moment. They find you. This one has been sitting in my heart for a while. It was time.
Originally written July 2, 2021
Throughout my junior high and high school years, that was his name, though no one ever said that to his face. Either my brother just younger than me, or one of his friends gave him that “nickname.” Though only 5’8” and not too terribly imposing physically, Chief Joe was a mercurial figure in our lives, the right-proper head of the household in every respect. When I was old enough to understand what filing taxes meant, I imagine he proudly and forcefully bolded, underlined, circled, and highlighted “head of household” at the top of his returns. The stories told about my dad stretched long and tall as he reached near-mythical proportions. The fact was that many of them were true, and we didn’t have to stretch the stories for effect. The events stood tall on their own.
“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.”— Ernest Hemingway
At 80 years now, he’s much milder than he used to be, though I’ve seen (and I believe on command at the turn of a dime that would make even Barry Sanders watch in awe) his alter ego from days past comes out in full force from time to time. Those days are fewer and farther in between, which I’m quite happy for, as they take a toll on all of us. While living some of those days back in the day was not fun, I do look back on all of them with fondness. I imagine now as I have thoughts of a family myself, being surrounded by family & friends who have their own families, that it must have been monumentally difficult to raise one in a foreign land without the support of anyone remotely near and dear. While our childhood mainly was spent with my folks protecting us from the outside world, once we left, they reverted back to their true selves, fun and jovial. Over the years, they built a massive network of friends in addition to our family members who immigrated to the States.
A few days ago, Chief Joe was admitted to the E.R. He doesn’t get sick very often. It must have been bad cos virtually nothing has, and nothing could ever take this man down. Quite frankly, I was terrified. He has a stent and a pacemaker. And he’s a diabetic. He was dizzy, nauseous, incoherent, and disoriented. He had lost colour in his face, and his blood pressure was skyrocketing. I wanted to see them. Given it had been 14 months since Christmas 2019 since we had last been in each other’s company, which had been weighing very heavily in our hearts and minds these past few months, I was despondent that we were so far away from each other. Still, I knew that Grace needed me too. An accelerated program for nursing school where they cram almost four years of coursework, labs, and clinical rotations into sixteen months is intense. She is truly a superhero, but even Wonder Woman needs support. I had a dilemma before me.
A few days ago, I decided to reread Viktor Frankl’s seminal work “Man’s Search for Meaning,” his life story in the Nazi concentration camps. I was paralyzed at that moment of deciding whether I should stay in Chicago or fly to Tampa. I read Frankl’s forward to the 1992 edition to get my mind off making a decision. In it, he answers the question of why did he not move to America, especially given that he had been invited to the American Consulate in Vienna to pick up his immigration visa and knowing “what was in store for [him] after Hitler had occupied Austria.” He was pondering his own dilemma whether he should leave his parents to their fate and pursue his theories on logotherapy or “concentrate on [his] duties as a… child of his parents who had to do whatever he could to protect them.” He didn’t know what to do and decided to leave it in God’s hands believing he’d get “a hint from Heaven.” Around that time, he was visiting his folks and noticed a piece of marble on the table at home which his father explained he had found on the site where the National Socialists had burned down the largest synagogue in Vienna. The marble was a part of the tablets on which the Ten Commandments were inscribed. Frankl inquired what the Hebrew letter engraved onto the piece was. His father explained that the letter stood for one of the Commandments, specifically the one that said, “Honor thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long upon the land.” That moment, Frankl decided to stay with his parents and let his visa lapse. Almost 30 years later, when he shared those words from the other side of the globe in Vienna, I read this forward in Chicago and knew right then that I needed to be with my parents.
After a quick discussion with Grace, I bought a flight to leave early evening and arrive that night either heading directly to the hospital, unsure whether they’d even let me in, or straight to my parent’s home.
There were a ton of Chiefs fans on that plane — hopeful, loud, certain that Patrick Mahomes was about to cement his place as the next once-in-a-generation quarterback, the heir to Tom Brady’s throne. I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I had my parents on my mind.
I headed home once I landed after getting a text from my mom that dad had been discharged. Throughout the weekend, I remained calm & supportive on the outside (though I felt quite the opposite on the inside). My presence was a tremendous sense of relief for mom. That reassurance allowed her nurse brain to kick in — and that nurse brain was something to behold. I watched her take charge at the doctor’s offices and on the phone with them, setting up appointments for lab work and follow-ups. She sent texts to all family members and friends. She answered or returned every phone call, keeping everyone in the loop with how dad was progressing. She was always doing something to take care of dad. She did not take a single break. It was truly remarkable, inspirational, and totally badass. I admired her so much. Mom — you deserve every single word of this.
I was scheduled to leave Monday morning but felt a tremendous sense of anxiety Sunday evening that I needed to be home for a few days more. So I changed my flight to Wednesday morning. We continued his care, took him to the doctors. His cousin, a renowned cardiologist, and his wife stopped by our home and provided us with great advice and an action plan. By last night, dad was almost back to normal. So much so that we stayed up till after midnight as he was sharing stories of his childhood with me with mom happily listening in attendance. I was so tired, but I didn’t want to sleep and certainly didn’t want the moment to end.
This morning, we drove to the airport. Upon arriving as I was picking up my bags from the trunk and about to hand the keys off to dad, we hugged. He said, “I love you.” While I’ve felt his love my entire life — when I was younger, “tough love” and as I got older love born of mutual respect — I’d never heard him initiate those words. I felt an immense sense of closeness with him. I could see this tough man was tearing up. I hugged mom and expressed our love for each other (which we always do). The three of us took one last loving look at each other before I went inside, and they drove away.
It was a perfect conclusion to a weekend that started in the danger zone.
I am now on a bird bound back for Chicago and my darling Grace.
Flying high on love.
Secret of My SucCecil 