My dad passed away in 2009 at the age of 80, just before he and Mom were to move in with us. We’d just been to Maryland from New Jersey, to join my brother and Mom in a gentle intervention to get him to give up the car keys. He had glaucoma and was nearly blind. When I signed to him, I had to have my hands close up to his eyes. He’d put his hands on my wrists to follow any movements I made to make sure he understood what I was signing.
My mom and brother were scared to death because he continued to drive in such a condition. In fact, Mom wouldn’t even get in the car with him anymore. He countered that they were in a rural area and he needed to drive to get necessities: groceries, gas, a lottery ticket. To counter that, we suggested that he and Mom move into our house with their own private space. We could drive Dad anywhere he wanted to go. Ted knew that Dad loved to go on walks and mentioned how close we were to the parks.
Dad cried. He put his arms around me and said: “My daughter, I’m so happy.”
But then he died. Had he lived, he would have been 93 tomorrow.
This year, I am having many fond memories of Dad in spite of many times that we were on the outs. It wasn’t Dad’s fault. Mom had an undiagnosed mental health issue that plagued her throughout my childhood and adulthood. She was verbally and physically abusive to my brother and me. When we were very small, Dad would come home from work and whisk us away for an ice cream treat, a swim in the bay, or just a nice drive around town.
I was never afraid of Dad. He and Mom would drink to excess and then get into these horrific fights that led to violence. He never turned that kind of anger on me. Mom did. In the mid ‘70s, when I was about 22 or 23, she chased me with an ice pick. She was drunk and in a rage. I managed to get free and bolted from our apartment, taking refuge with friends. Dad showed up the next day, apologizing for her behavior and begging me to come back. He promised it wouldn’t happen again but I knew it would. I didn’t go back and he left, crushed.
My Dad taught me to swim on those visits to the bay beach in our neighborhood. When I was older, he taught me how to ride a big two-wheeler. He proudly clapped his hands as I pedaled away down the street. I felt as if I were flying. He even tried to teach me how to drive, although that didn’t work out so well.
I have a vivid memory of a Father's Day/birthday celebration when I was about 12. We went to a miniature golf course with plans to eat out at our favorite restaurant later. However, when I moved out of the way for Mom to take her turn, I stumbled and fell onto a cracked pipe hidden by unmowed grass. The pipe gashed my knee to the bone, although I didn't know that until later.
Off we went to the emergency room. In shock and terrified, when I was brought back to be treated, I began crying and asking for Dad. One of the nurses left to go to the waiting room and fetch Dad. He sat on a stool by my head and held my hand while the doctor stitched up my knee. He was calm and soothing, very protective, in spite of the paleness of his face. I felt comforted and safe and stayed still until the doctor was done. Dad said to me with his voice, "You are a brave girl. I'm proud of you."
When I was growing up and into my teen years, he would tell me he was proud of me. He complimented my housekeeping abilities and supported my musical abilities. Have you seen the movie, Coda? The hearing daughter loved music and her Deaf family came to watch her perform in a high school play. It was the same when my parents came to watch me play the guitar and sing. They looked around while other people were on stage, Mom signing “I’m bored” to Dad. They could see lips moving but had no clue as to what was going on. When it was my turn, they sat up straight and watched me closely even though they couldn’t hear a single note.
Dad was so thrilled when I became an interpreter for the Deaf. He signed to me: “You understand Deaf World. I’m so proud of you.”
I am remembering him today and smiling warmly. Happy Father’s Day in Heaven, Dad.
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