Talking with dad

Since my dad died, there have been several occasions in which I have wanted to call and tell him things. I think most everyone who has lost a parent is in that boat. I thought back to times when I did call dad and wrote them down. Enjoy

What if she is the one?

 I remember calling Dad one time when I was 18 years old and home on leave from the Army.

I had met a girl.

I had stopped at the western store, Sheplers, in Denver, and met a beautiful girl who worked there. Being young, confident, and fresh out of Army basic training, I got her number, and we went out a few times.

Then my buddy, Pete, told me he knew her. Unfortunately, the information he shared did not exactly calm my nerves.

I was young, naive, and completely out of my depth.

So I called Dad.

Somehow, we ended up sitting in a car around ten o'clock at night, talking about this girl and what I should do. 

I remember telling him how I felt. I remember telling him what I believed. And I remember telling him that I had never been with a girl sexually. His response surprised me. "You haven't?" When I told him no, he looked at me and said he thought that was great. Then he told me something that stuck with me. He said I should follow my convictions, be honest about my intentions, and tell her how I felt.

I don't remember every word after that part of the conversation. I don't remember all the advice.

What I remember is that when I needed him, he came. At ten o'clock at night. To sit in a car. And talk to an 18-year-old kid about a girl.

For the record, I gave her my high school ring and a really nice leather jacket before I went back to the Army. She dumped me. I never got either one back.

Dad was right about following my convictions. He just forgot to warn me about giving out sentimental stuff.

Chris is born!

Another time I remember calling Dad was when my son Chris was born.

I was 25 years old and living in Germany. I was working as a helicopter mechanic contractor, and layoffs were always hanging over everyone's heads. Nothing felt very stable. I remember talking with my wife one day in a friend's garden about having kids. I told her that I thought we should wait until I was sure my job situation was stable. She said there would always be a reason to wait.

Not long after that conversation, she told me she was pregnant. 

So much for that plan.

Since her first child had been born by C-section, we knew Chris would be born the same way. We even knew the exact date. January 19th. I called my parents to tell them the news, and Dad was excited. He was proud. I don't remember every detail of that conversation, but I remember how happy he was.

Somewhere along the way, I made another decision.

I decided I was going to quit smoking on January 1st. That probably deserves its own story. My dad had smoked my entire life. I picked it up in high school. I quit during Army basic training, but like an idiot, I bought a pack of cigarettes at a rest stop while traveling between Fort Dix and Fort Eustis for AIT.

I can still remember standing there debating whether I should buy them. I bought them.

Years later, with a baby on the way, I decided it was time to quit for good.

Then January 19th arrived. 

The C-section went fine. Chris's birth did not. He was having trouble breathing. The doctors tried several things, but eventually they decided he needed to be transferred to a specialty children's hospital. As a brand-new father, I immediately went to the worst place possible in my mind.

I stepped outside and called Dad.

Back then, cell phones were still pretty new. I had bought one of those old Nokia brick phones because I was driving over 200 miles a day for work and wanted to be reachable if something happened during the pregnancy.

I didn't care what the call would cost. I just needed my dad. I remember standing there, crying like a child, trying to explain what was happening. And in the middle of all that fear and stress, I remember saying something that still makes me laugh.

"I sure picked a hell of a time to quit smoking."

At that moment, my favorite coping mechanism was gone. All I could do was stand there and deal with what was happening. Over the years, I've told that story to people who say they can't quit smoking because life is too stressful. My answer is always the same. If I could get through that, you can get through whatever you're facing.

The good news is that Chris got better. His lungs improved. He was eventually able to breathe room air without oxygen.

One of the things that always makes me smile is that I was the first person to feed him and the first person to change his diaper. And I spent several days alone with him in that hospital while we waited for him to get stronger.

Looking back now, I remember the fear. I remember the stress. I remember the phone call. I can remember the parking lot where I stood, the bright sun shining down, and the sand crunching under my boots. 

But most of all, I remember that when life felt completely out of control, I called my dad. And just hearing his voice made it a little easier to get through.

Divorce

One of the hardest phone calls I ever made to my dad came when my first marriage was ending.

There is a lot about that time that I don't remember.

I remember the front porch. I remember my ex-wife telling me she wanted a divorce. I remember the papers. She already had everything drawn up, although nothing had been filed yet. I remember flipping through the pages and seeing the child support numbers.

I remember trying as hard as I could not to cry.

At that moment, all I could think about was the horror stories I had heard about divorce. I was terrified. Terrified of losing time with my kids. Terrified of what the future was going to look like. Terrified of how I was going to make it through.

After she left, I called Dad.

I told him what had happened. I told him it had come out of nowhere. I told him I didn't know what I was going to do. What I remember most isn't what he said. It's how he said it. Dad had this calm voice.

No matter what kind of storm was going on in my life, he had a way of making things feel manageable.

He told me I was going to be okay. He told me they were there for me. He told me we would get through it. He even offered to help pay for a divorce attorney.

At the time, those words meant everything.

Looking back now, I realize how much I was falling apart. I wasn't eating. I wasn't interested in the things I normally enjoyed. I was barely functioning.

I was a basket case.

The only thing that carried me through that season was my faith. I was at church every time the doors were open. My church family surrounded me and lifted me up when I needed it most.

And every time I felt like I was drowning, there was Dad. Steady. Calm. Present.

My parents stepped in when I needed them. Not because they could fix everything. But because they loved me.

Looking back over the years, that's probably what I remember most about calling Dad.

Whether it was a girl, a newborn son in the hospital, or a marriage falling apart, I always knew what I was going to hear when he answered the phone.

Not panic. Not judgment. Not criticism. Just that calm voice telling me we would figure it out. And somehow, we always did.

One thing he used to say all the time was "Deep Thought." That was what he used to fix things.