11. Dad
[All grief posts are numbered for easy following or avoiding. Also please know this is one of the most intensely emotional events in my life.]
When I look at this beloved photo of my dad at work, all I can hear in my mind is “Daddyyyy”. I hear him coming in the backdoor of our home, and can remember running to greet him. I know the smell of jet fuel and cigarettes on that trench coat, the soft yet scratchy feeling of his sweater vest, and the smell of aftershave as I leaned into the starched collar nape of his neck. And the cap? I can picture exactly what it looks like inside and how heavy it was, as I would often play with it and try it on. My inner child reacts strongly, as this is how I saw my dad most of the time. He was either coming home from flying or leaving to fly.
He was all around us, but also rarely home. There were weeks when I wouldn’t see him at all, but clung to a photo of him, carefully encased in my purple My Little Pony wallet. He would call to say goodnight, but sometimes my response was a quick, “Okay, goodnight! Love you Dad!” as I ran off to finish playing or reading.
He was dedicated to his role as a provider and chose to put in more hours so we could have a better life. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how stressful and exhausting his career was. Life in airports and hotels seemed fancy and luxurious, but when it’s your job and you’re battling against time and weather - forces over which you have no control - it wears you down. Sleeping in your own bed every night and seeing your family every day are privileges that airline staff willingly sacrifice to “fly the friendly skies.”
He would always say, “I love you more than you’ll ever know.” And I really didn’t back then, but as an adult and parent, I do now, Dad. I really do. And honestly, ‘thank you’ doesn’t cut it.
The Magic of Dad
If Mom was peace and love and nature, Dad was “The Captain” - on guard, anxious, emotionally unpredictable, and yet often jovial and loving. Their 11-year age gap very much showed as my mom grew up in the 60s/70s while Dad was a 40s/50s baby. She was daisies, long hair, and peaceful protests. He was post-Depression era, sock hops, and a Vietnam veteran who followed rules.
Yet, he was also so magical. My dad was the one who insisted on keeping the myths alive of Santa, the Easter Bunny, and anything else that required innocent deception for as long as possible. I remember finding a gift wrapped in my parents’ closet long before December, and it said, “From Santa”. I had heard whisperings that he wasn’t real, so I turned to my parents and asked for the truth.
Mom was a truth-teller. No matter how hard, she gave us things directly and honestly, and I treasured her for that. Dad’s response was, “Well, Santa has helpers who sometimes go out early and drop off gifts for us to hold on to. This keeps Santa’s sleigh from getting overloaded…”
“Steve, STOP,” was my mom’s soft but firm reply.
I was old enough to learn the truth, but Dad didn’t want to break my spirit or disappoint me. Mom gave it to me straight.
I can’t tell that story without sharing a Christmas Eve ‘miracle’ that my parents created. My brother had received a huge box (like 3 feet long) of handmade wooden blocks from my uncle. He opened the gift as part of our “one gift on Xmas Eve” tradition, so the blocks were strewn about the living room from our evening of play.
We went to sleep, all giggly and buzzing from the holiday energy. When we woke up on Christmas morning, we sat eagerly at the top of the stairs waiting for the ‘all clear’ from our parents to sprint down the stairs to see what gifts awaited under the tree. As we entered the living room, instead of diving into our stuff, our attention was captured by a majestic block castle. “Santa” had used every single block in the box to create a beautiful wooden castle, then, on top was a sign in calligraphy (which my Dad loved doing - but we overlooked this clue), saying “Merry Christmas! Love, Santa Claus”. Oh, there was no way our parents had the time to do all that with every block! And clearly Santa would write in calligraphy because he’s skilled and fancy. My belief was forever enhanced. Well, until I found the pre-wrapped and labeled gifts, that is.
You could say Dad was an expert bullshitter. He could weave truths, and lies, and real information he knew into wonderful stories that were fun to listen to, but ultimately led to me question even his truths as I got old enough to know it wasn’t all reality.
“I’ve been around the world 52 times,” he would say; he had actually flown that many miles to have circled the planet, but in my childhood brain I pictured my dad looping the earth like Santa on Christmas Eve. Santa might not have been real, but Dad was!
The nice way to explain Dad’s stories was to say they were embellished, rather than bullshit. However, after he died, I ran across many folks who validated his seemingly tall tales.
He told us he flew Air Force One and he had a model of it, so that seemed real, but I wavered in my belief, knowing it might not have 100% veracity. After he died, my brother-in-law gained access to Dad’s military history. Sure enough, there it was, the certificate showing my dad had not only flown Air Force One, but also was based in Alaska at some point(!).
His Vietnam flight navigator came to his funeral and confirmed that they really did see some kind of unidentified flying objects during their service.
His stories about celebrities he had flown over the years were varied: OJ Simpson, Paul Newman, Paula Abdul (when I was really into her), someone from NSYNC (also when we liked the group), Bill Cosby, etc. Sometimes he managed to get gifts for us, which also served as proof: my brother got an autographed Bill Cosby photo and a Dick Butkis-signed football. He happily brought me a Neil Diamond autograph, but I didn’t know who that was so he taught me “Rhinestone Cowboy”. The one I remember the best was an autograph from Muhammad Ali, and to show it was real my dad has him sign the printout that showed he was on the plane. It was so cool, but also sort of sad as it showed, as teens, he knew we doubted his stories rather than drinking them up like we did as children.
Yet, my dad loved all of his passengers and crew, not just the ones he could brag to us about. He took great care in “giving folks a ride they won’t remember” and his favorite passengers were the “white knucklers,” people who were scared to fly so badly they would grip the arm rest, causing the skin on their knuckles to lighten and tense up. He loved showing people the cockpit and explaining how things worked, especially to kids. He gave out wing pins, he would speak directly to folks who needed it as they entered the plane.
He was based in Detroit and Chicago for much of my life and he flew smaller commuter planes - partly to avoid feeling the pressure of having even more passengers to soothe and support. He liked the small, fast jets and he knew every plane he flew and the air he encountered intimately. He could fly around or over storms, he knew how to handle snowy blizzard conditions, he was a stickler for Federal Aviation Administration rules and regulations. If he knew a plane needed additional de-icing to remove ice accumulation, he would refuse to leave the gate until it was done. He did not mess around with protocols, safety, and was known for acing every check ride in his career - that means he scored 100% on the routine tests and flight simulators pilots have to pass to keep flying. He was a phenomenal pilot.
People LOVED flying and working with my dad. Co-pilots (First Officers), flight attendants, gate agents, etc. Mentioning his name in Chicago O’Hare Airport to any American Eagle (airlines) employee was returned with big smiles and stories about how he did something nice for them or their family. He remembered names, he was given homemade brownies, he was a safe person for other pilots to vent to and eventually was a membership chair for the Air Line Pilots Association (ALPA) (the world’s largest union of airline pilots). Pilots would call at all times of day or night and he would walk them through whatever the concern was. I remember him once answering the phone while in bed, moments from sleep, and taking the call to support his fellow flyer.
Dad put others first - always. While this meant people loved him and appreciated his kindness, I would argue that it was a key factor in his eventual undoing. Dad worked relentlessly for us. He made sure we were taken care of. He treasured my mom, constantly told others about his kids, looked out for people, complimented and reassured folks… and yet he didn’t take care of himself. He was so busy worrying about everyone around him that Papa Steve never really learned to prioritize his own care.
Dad loved and loved and loved, but one of the most tragic parts of his story was that he never learned how worthy of love he was. He used to say, “I’d milk a bull for you.” When you consider that bulls don’t give milk, and he would have been yanking on a bull’s penis instead of an udder, the phrase leads to an image of a man willingly getting throttled by a pissed-off bull just because he loved me. Dad did that a lot. He took brutal kicks, never pausing to think that he deserved to be safe on the sidelines as well. That maybe you don’t have to be a martyr to try to earn your way to Heaven. That you are always loved just because you are and worthy of feeling good and being healthy.
I know that being raised Roman Catholic contributed to my dad having this mindset of guilt, shame, and constant feelings of unworthiness. A part of him was forever the little boy in Catholic school being disciplined by a nun with a ruler, hearing he was bad and trying to be unattainably good. A sinner constantly seeking redemption that isn’t given unconditionally. The love he was so amazing at giving was something he could never give himself, and in the end it broke him.
Mom + Dad
When I say Dad loved Mom, that isn’t sufficient. My dad honestly worshipped my mom. She was his “angel on earth” (his words) and he was absolutely crazy about her. He would do anything for his wife, and his kids. But she was his everything. Of course Mom also loved Dad, but not with the same approach.
They met on Dad’s birthday. At his party, in fact. He would say, “Your mom is the best birthday present I ever received.” [For an audio version of how they met, here is an episode from my podcast, Lizzie’s Drive. I created the podcast to share family stories with my sister as she drove to work.]
As a kid, I didn’t always understand their relationship. Through my childhood eyes, I saw a beautiful, fit woman who was fun and kept our home and family stable and organized. Dad’s spaces were messy, often heaped with papers, he had Attention Deficit Disorder and a mood disorder of some kind but he came from a generation where mental health support was taboo. In public, he was able to be social and entertaining, in private, he could be playful and wonderful, but also blustery. When Dad was coming home, there was excitement to see him, but also a sense of “all hands on deck” as we battened down the hatches - making sure the house was clean and all was in order, as we never knew what emotions he might bring home in his flight bag.
So, that was part of why I didn’t understand why Mom chose Dad. The other part was very superficial. Dad didn’t meet the beauty standards of the time. As long as I can remember, Dad was bald, heavy with a large belly, smoked, and just not as attractive as Mom was. I remember being puzzled by this mismatch as a kid and asking, “Mom, why did you marry Dad?”
“I knew he would always take care of us,” she said.
And she was right. So incredibly right. When they first met (short version), Dad had stood out as her ‘knight in shining armor’. She met him in the northern half of our state, then went to the lower peninsula to return to school. She was 19. When she got to the school, they had no record of her, no dorm, nothing. She went to a party and somehow got a toothpick lodged in her bare foot. She had no insurance. She called Steve. Knowing him, I imagine he heard her crying and instinctually had to find a way to take care of her. He drove 8 hours to her and tried removing the toothpick himself (he was originally going to be a doctor and was very adept at things like this), but she wouldn’t let him. So what did he do? The logical thing. Drove her back to his Air Force base and lied to the doctor, saying she was his wife so that she could be treated. Dad said the doctor gave him a doubtful look, but could tell my dad was not kidding around. The toothpick came out, Debbie was safe, and Steve had rescued his princess.
Fast forward through 25 years of marriage with three kids, now aged 15, 21, and 23. Steve’s “angel” passed away. While my mom may have died, it is also true that Dad’s heart permanently broke that day. He soldiered on by some miracle and stayed with us for another nine years. He adjusted his flight path. Mom had been the one who made sure everything was in order for us; driving us to choir, scheduling medical appointments, finalizing college applications, etc. Mom also managed the house - when she died my dad had essentially not written a single check or paid an electric bill in 25 years.
To say it was a shock is an understatement. Not only had we all lost the most amazing wife and mother, our foundation had been completely rocked. In construction there is a stone at the center of a doorway arch that keeps it together. The key stone. Our key stone had been plucked from us and our pieces tumbled to the ground.
We were all struggling, yet Dad felt like an empty shell at times. He had struggled with anxiety and depression even when Mom was alive. A family member even gifted him an Eeyore t-shirt once because Dad could be a real “thanks for noticing me” kind of guy. With her gone, he sunk deeper and deeper. I remember pleading with him to take care of himself better, to stick around for us, and he would tell me his mission was to make sure that us kids were “taken care of”; he wasn’t going to worry about himself.
I remember the call. It was after 2am when my phone rang. When I saw it was Lizzie, I already knew it had to be about Dad.
She had come home and found Dad sitting at his computer. Dad was a night owl who would spend hours online playing games. My brother had helped Dad build his own computer - it was souped up. A true gamer, he even wore a headset while he played.
Dad had suffered a stroke and was alive, but unintelligible as he sat in his office chair. My sister and her fiancé managed the crisis and Dad got to the hospital. Meanwhile, my brother and I had grabbed whatever stuff we could in the fog of “Dad’s in the ER” and synced up so we could make the 8 hour drive from the lower peninsula to the northern half of our state, much like Dad had driven to rescue Mom years before.
Mom was relentless about being healthy. She would eat well, exercise daily (I watched her do Gilad workouts while eating my breakfast cereal), and made sure she went to all medical appointments. Dad was just not. He ate on the road (fast food and sometimes jelly packets for convenience). He sat for a living. His sleep schedule was erratic.
Yet, Dad survived his first stroke. He underwent rehab and seemed to enjoy the attention. He had medications, follow-ups, etc. which he mostly seemed to follow. But, did he still eat a heap of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups while gaming into the night? Yes. Did he get more active? No. I was convinced that some part of Dad was ready to follow Mom into the great unknown as soon as she left. I really think he wanted to die and was just waiting for it to happen. He wanted to be with her if he could.
After the hospitalization, we were more vigilant in checking on Dad and answering his calls. He was on a medication that would sometimes make him loopy. One time I called and he was slurring here and there. When I voiced concern, he said, “It’s just the medicine.” I asked him to call his doctor, as maybe the dosage was off. I do not know if he did, but I doubt it.
When the next stroke(s) hit, it was no longer a drill. Dad was in Intensive Care and the outlook was not good.
He lingered in the ICU for a few days. He was hooked up to machines, his eyes pinched tightly closed, but he was sometimes responsive with a hand squeeze or movement. I recall thinking he looked like a 66-year old baby, cuddled into his sheets, being visited by family and friends who wanted to say hello… and goodbye. I sensed a certain contentment from him, like he was finally close to the doorway of a very long and often painful journey. He seemed ready to depart.
In the years and months leading up to Dad’s final day, he would tell us repeatedly where to find his will documents. An underwear drawer isn’t the most secure place, but it was his selected safe. The other thing he said many times was that he wanted a bagpiper at his funeral playing “Amazing Grace”. The song held extra special meaning to him since Grace was my mom’s middle name, and he felt like she saved him. “Sure, Dad,” I said, not sure where I’d find a bagpiper.
…
When they unplugged Dad’s machines, he wasn’t passing as quickly as expected. We did the “tell him it’s okay to leave” thing. Still nothing. I remembered Dad’s musical request and even tried playing a bagpipe rendition of “Amazing Grace” on an iPad held near his ear. Still nothing. He was surrounded by his kids, his sisters, brothers and sisters-in-law, cousins, etc. We prayed. We sang. My cousin’s wife gave us worry stones from the gift shop, saying “It’s just too much.” Mine had a purple butterfly on it.
We held his hands. The hospital brought all of us lunch on a big cart. We walked in and out of his room. Waiting for someone to die can sometimes feel like ages.
And then he took off. Captain Steve’s final departure was on a stunningly beautiful October day, and the runway was clear at last.
When I told you that I asked Mom why she married Dad, I left part of it out. Her full answer was, “I wanted a family and I knew he would always take care of us.” Dad once shared that when he was a little boy, he would pray for God to give him a family.
I have an incredibly deep sense of peace knowing that they both got what they wanted, and I am humbled in knowing all they ever wanted was us.
❤️🩹 ❤️🩹 ❤️🩹
No Generative AI was used in the writing of this post. Any financial boost goes directly to encouraging me as a writer who ‘does her own stunts.’