8 stitches and all is well

there have been a few stories here about our mishaps with hubert - there was the $160 middle-of-the-night diagnosis of ear wax and the stint in the oxygen tent - all amounting to nothing more than a few funny stories and a hit on the bank account. well this time he's finally getting well deserved sympathy. the poor guy had such a bad abscess that it required minor surgery and 8 stitches. imagine what would happen to him if he was allowed to go outside?

hmmm - burn the cheese or burn my finger?

the thought of burning a perfectly good glob of feta made me grab the white hot frying pan without even thinking that i would get second degree burns on my finger.

thanks for the lessons dad

the following is the eulogy that i gave last week at my dad's funeral -

In thinking about what I wanted to say, I spent a lot of time trying to come up with the perfect phrase or quote to capture, in famous pithy prose or verse, what my Dad – your husband, brother, cousin, Wally, Walt, Walter – meant to me and you.

I looked to Whitman and Thoreau, but it didn’t click. And I’m not quite sure my Dad was too in to either.

Maya Angelou – too lyrical

Rush Limbaugh – if you know anything about me you know that I didn’t even look there.

Honestly, the more I looked the more frustrated I became. None of these literary geniuses captured the essence of my Dad.

About to give up, it occurred to me – who better to “capture the essence of my Dad” than my Dad himself. Believe it or not – he consistently doled out words of wisdom, many of which I live by today.

I’ll give you a few –

At sixteen he taught me how to spell “car.” You’re all sitting here thinking – “isn’t this the kid that went to Harvard? She couldn’t spell “car” at 16?” Believe me – that’s EXACTLY what I thought until he explained to me that “car” was actually spelled J O B.

With those three simple letters he conveyed to me the importance of hard work and responsibility. It wasn’t his responsibility to buy me a car – it was my responsibility to work for what I wanted.

Another one of my favorites was “it’s a long way to go for a sandwich Becca.”

These were his words teaching me commitment – commitment to family, friends, the community.

He would say this when he would return from visiting his sister in Buffalo and stay only for lunch because he knew that it was important to connect with family (but still wanted to sleep in his own bed at night) and would give me these same words of wisdom after driving 30 miles without ever leaving his beloved Baldwinsville while delivering Meals on Wheels or when he would come back from shuttling seniors to and from the doctors for Baldwinsville Senior Express.

Or how about when, EVERY TIME we passed the psychic on Rte. 57 in Liverpool, he would say –

“Hey Bec! Go and knock on the door and ask her if she knew you were coming?!” And then laugh and laugh like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard in his entire lifetime.

Frankly, I just thought it was stupid, annoying and repetitive – WAIT! Come to think of it – it taught me PATIENCE!

And when he taught me accountability.

I was a sophomore in college and had just “earned” my third “D.”

I knew I was going to have to deal with my parents so I came up with the perfect one-liner for the conversation.

The conversation went something like this –

“Bec, one more “D” and you’re coming home.”

“Okay Dad, but you know that you can’t spell degree without a “D.”

Clever on my part, huh?

Without missing a beat, he replied –

“Yes, Rebecca, but you’re stuttering with your D…D…Degree.”

How about this as a way to learn about priorities –

I told him that I wanted to take a 2 credit course in wheel thrown pottery. He told me that he wasn’t paying $3000 for me to play with clay and that if I did, in fact, want to play with clay I could come home and take a $50 class at BOCES.

Now he wasn’t knocking the arts or BOCES. He was merely reminding me that I was studying International Affairs at a renowned school for International Affairs and I should take advantage of those opportunities while I had the chance.

Here’s one that I’m still trying to learn and embrace – living in the moment. Or, in the words of Wally – “it didn’t even enter my mind” or “I didn’t even think about it.”

As in – “Dad, did you ask the doctor about the new medicine?”

“It didn’t even enter my mind, Bec.”

Or “Dad, why didn’t you … (fill in the situation here.”)

“Becca, I didn’t even think about it.”

I want to end with my favorite Dad-ism, but before I do I point you to the words of the poet and author george elliot who famously said – “it’s never to late to be what you might have been.”

This was my Dad and the guy we all knew and loved.

A friend of Bill W. since 1979 – he knew that it wasn’t too late to get sober and start a new life with a more productive focus than the bottle and the bar.

It was never too late to live life despite significant health issues. To give you an idea, the doctor’s gave him 6 months to live – that was 18 years ago. In those 18 years he volunteered, traveled extensively – never letting anything stop him.

And it was never too late to reestablish and repair relationships – to get right with those he’d wronged, with God.

As many of you know, this last year has been rough – the stuff of soap operas really. Revelations led to renewed relationships – with people, with God, with himself.

My Dad worked through some life-long demons and came out on the other side.

While trying and sometimes downright demoralizing and overwhelming – I wouldn’t trade one day. I got to know my Dad better than ever. We shared our secrets, our hopes and dreams, fears and appreciation for one another – his last words to me were – “Thanks for caring so much about me Bec.”

Oh, and lots and lots of laughs!

Bear with me while I set this up, because it’s well worth the punchline.

While my Dad’s mental health improved tremendously over the past year (it was like having back the Dad of yore!), his physical health was in consistent decline. To give you an idea – he suffered two heart attacks in a matter of weeks.

After the second heart attack, he told me that I should just call him TAAAHHHHHDDDD. I busted out laughing!

He was referring to the Saturday Night Live skit from the ‘90s with Chris Farley that went something like this …

I leave you with the most personal of stories and the most life changing of words.

About 10 years ago I had to tell my parents something that I had been avoiding for almost my entire life. Something that I was sure that they were going to find distressing – especially my father.

I told my mom and she was “mom” telling me that it would be okay and that we would work it out. I told my Dad and he was – SILENT

The next day I met him for lunch and pretty much cried the entire time. He engaged in “Wally” conversation – the weather and SU sports.

When we were leaving I couldn’t even look him in the eye – just kept my head down and repeated “I’m sorry. I know you must be disappointed” over and over.

I stared at the ground and he said nothing.

After what seemed like hours, I felt his finger lifting up my chin as he said calmly – “Hold you head up Rebecca.”

He said nothing else before he left.

You know what – I knew that everything was going to be just fine.

When I leave here today, I’ll hold my head up and I think you all should too because that’s what Friend of Bill W., husband, father, brother, uncle, cousin, neighbor, colleague, friend, Walter, Walt, Wally would want.

He would want each of us to hold our head up and do that one thing that’s going to take each of us to the next level because it’s never too late.

Thanks for lessons Dad.

i'll keep holding my head up dad

june 11, 1940 - april 30, 2010