When a Dad Becomes a Parent

My Mom called me on the Thursday before my oldest (at the time only) daughter’s fifth birthday party. She was upset.

An almost week-long headache had worn her out, and she wasn’t feeling very well. This impacted her making my daughter’s birthday cake, thus the sadness in her voice. I told her not to worry and to rest.

I said I’d take care of the cake. I said I’d take care of things.

A quick aside. Mom had developed a well-deserved reputation for making the best looking (and tasting) cakes in our circle of friends, family and co-workers. She took pride in them, and for her not to be able to create her granddaughter’s birthday cake really hit her hard.

I reassured her that things would be fine and I’d do my best with the cake. I knew her, and her inclination would be to still try to make the cake even if she was feeling terrible.

Moving along to the day of the party (April 1st, the day before my birthday), we were getting ready to leave for the party setup, and my Dad called. He said that Mom was still feeling terrible, so they weren’t coming up for the party. He was taking her to the doctor to get checked out. I was disappointed, but I was glad he was making her go to the doctor. So, I told him to call later and let me know what was said, and we left to set up the party.

At the party, it was chaos, of course. In that chaos, my Dad called me again. He informed me that the doctor told them that they needed to take my Mom to Milwaukee (an hour away), as that’s where they perform Neurosurgery if it would be needed. It was at this point that my brain began to spin. Dad said my sister and brother-in-law would drive them down, and that he’d call soon. I was sitting in a roller rink, surrounded by kids and parents, but I felt like I was removed from them all. I discussed things with my wife, and we got through the party. Afterwards, we took everything home and I turned us around to start the two hour drive to Milwaukee.

As we were on the road, Dad called me. He said that Mom was sedated and resting, and he was going back home with my sister. At this point, I realized I was in a panic, so I took my wife and daughter home, and I told my Dad I’d drive with him to Milwaukee in the morning.

Dad called me very early that Sunday, and I could barely understand him. He was crying and scared. He didn’t know what to do.

I told him, “Dad, I love you. I’ll be right down there. I’m here for you.”

All of my panic and uncertainty went away in that moment.

My Dad needed me.

My Mom needed me.

I talked to my wife, we packed some things for me, and I took off for Sheboygan.

When I arrived there, I found Dad sitting in the living room looking disheveled and older than I ever saw him. I hugged him. I told him everything will be all right. I packed his bags.

I realized that our roles has switched. I am now THE Dad, and my Dad is now the frightened son, needing reassurance that everything will be all right.

Looking back, I’m amazed how quickly and effortlessly I shifted into the role. I felt that if I portrayed a sense of calm and confidence, everyone can lean on that.

There are times when I’ve forced myself to act a certain way, but this wasn’t an act. I was calm and confident then. I knew my job. I didn’t even think twice about taking it on.

After the initial breakdown on Sunday, my Dad did pretty well that whole day. Much of it was involved talking with the Neurosurgeon regarding the surgery my Mom was about to undergo, then waiting on the surgery, then finding out that they were able to remove most of the tumor from her brain. The surgeon described it as a corkscrew which wound its way into her brain, and this caused the swelling and pressure that caused the pain. After the surgery, we went to see Mom in recovery. My brother went home, and once again is was Father and Son.

Checking into the hotel near the hospital, Dad just collapsed from exhaustion. I went to sleep quickly as well. We didn’t talk too much about things that night.

We woke up early Monday morning, and Dad broke down. He was afraid of losing his wife, he didn’t know what to say or do. I had never seen him so helpless ever in my life. I steeled myself, provided him a source of stability in a rapidly disintegrating world. I told him to take a shower, get that negative energy washed down the drain.

I’ve always been better at giving good advice than actually following it. Any feelings I had I made the decision to push aside for now. Helping Mom and Dad through this was more important than me, by a long shot.

So, we go to the hospital and I’m the one who asks all the questions, makes all the calls. I update everyone in the family. I walk miles of hospital corridors, make sure Dad eats, makes sure Mom knows I’m there for her.

It was at this time I realized what it means to be a parent, and to sacrifice everything for your child. I’m still getting over it, and it’s been six years.

I ask myself if I regret it. Every time, I reply the same,

“Of course not. They have done so much for me, this is the least I can do.”

Going back to the hospital, I sit in the uncomfortable chair in the NICU. I look over my list of things to do, and realize I am here until the end.

I whisper to my Mom, “Mom, I love you. I’m here for you.”

I sit back in my chair and rub my sore legs.

Deconstruction and you

My first attempts at an “about” blurb usually are terrible, and I revise them.

This time, I really like my blurb, and decided it needed to be a post by itself, as it perfectly describes what I’m trying to accomplish here. So, here goes.

I decided to start writing this as a series of discussions about my journey so far as a dad, and how the myth of the Super Dad needs to be deconstructed — at least for me.

The cool thing about doing a deconstruction right is that once you break things down, you can take the good parts and put them in a pile. You can then take the bad parts and put them in another pile.

The good parts, don’t touch them right now. Deconstruction is all about organization. The bad parts, though, you can further split them into even more piles!

I think there are three piles that could be considered the bad parts of a deconstructed anything. There’s a pile of bad things that you have no control over, but still have to deal with. There’s a pile of bad things that you have control over, and can fix. Finally, there’s a pile of bad things you can control, and just don’t need.

Now that you have your piles all sorted, the real fun can begin!

Chuck the bad stuff that you can, fix the things that need fixing, then the work of reconstruction can begin.

Thus, Super Dad is dead. Long Live Super Dad.

All Hail Super Dad!

Tomorrow is Father’s Day.

I’m a father. I’m also a son. What better way to celebrate this holiday than by starting a blog that announces in no uncertain terms that:

SUPER DAD IS DEAD.

I’ve been a father for over 11 years now. I’ve found a lot of things about myself. One of the things I’ve found out about myself is that the more things I discover about myself, the more I find out I really don’t know anything about myself.

So, I think a good exercise in moving this process of self-discovery along is to just start writing.

I’ve blogged before on other topics, and I’ve discovered that between that blog and the online persona that is attached to it, me bringing up this kind of discussion just won’t work. It certainly won’t work in Twitter, Tumblr, or YouTube.

So, Super Dad is dead. Long live Super Dad.