Noted :: Lessons

My Dad would have turned 85 today.

And I still celebrate the day he was born.

I still want to mark the date, make it have meaning and rejoice.

Rejoice that I was able to spend 42-short years with this remarkable man who I was lucky enough to call my Dad. Rejoice that he was here. That he mattered to me. That he meant so much to so many.

This post today isn’t about my Dad’s birthday, though.

This post is about LESSONS.

You know, the lessons our parents are always trying to teach us. Like eating our vegetables. Or being poliet.

But this is a much more important lesson. You could say this is “the” one, truly magical, BIG, important lesson.

May I share it with you?

It’s a little personal. And, its a bit ‘heavy’ for our little Elements marketing blog. But I think my Dad would be happy that I’m sharing it with you – even if only one person reads beyond this line, it might be worth it.

So {deep breath}, here it goes.

My Dad was an physician and an educator. He taught his whole life. He taught medical students at Yale Medical School as one of his many hats. Actually, it was his favorite hat. He loved to teach more than anything else. So it goes without saying, he was forever trying to teach my brother and I “lessons”.

Only, when we were kids, we substituted “lessons” for the word “lectures” and didn’t appreciate his wisdom quite the same we did later in life.

And as children, you can well imagine, we didn’t always listen.

First, I need to go back just a bit. I’ll leave out the nitty gritty details, but a few things you do need to know to get the full weight of this lesson.

April 29, 1979 at the age of 51, my beloved mom passed away of breast cancer. I was 11.

My Dad raised my older brother – then 13 – and I through our rocky teen years as a single parent.

When my brother – and then I – left home for college in Boston, my Dad met and married my step-mom.

My step-mom – who I love dearly – moved into my Dad’s house when my brother and I were still at school. They had a tag sale.

Without going into all the painful details, nearly everything that was left to me of my mom’s was gone – sold in a tag sale or given away.

When I discovered this on a visit home from school, I was heartbroken and furious. It was painfully explained to me that since I was a college student, I didn’t need my mom’s table linens or my mom’s wedding silverware, there was no need to keep it stored at my Dad’s – and now my step-mom’s – house. No discussion. All her treasures were gone. I was left alone to deal with it myself and without anyone understanding my heartbreak.

Years later, my brother died. He was 29 1/2 years old. It was on my birthday that he passed away. It was so painful. He didn’t have much, so there wasn’t much to cherish as mementos. Maybe a few concert tees and mixed tapes I’ve since lost through the years.

Two years ago, my Dad died. Heartbroken, my step-mom was in rush to get my Dad’s possessions out of her house. She didn’t want to be surrounded by painful reminders and she wanted to make sure I was able to have something to keep of his – remembering how I felt after my mom’s items were sold.

The first time I went to my Dad’s house to retrieve what I wanted – only a week after his service – I broke down and hyperventilated just walking into his closet. I left the house. I couldn’t do it.

Feeling pressured by my anxious step-mom to have his things ‘settled’, I returned about a week later. I still wasn’t ready, but I was more afraid I’d lose anything I wasn’t able to carry out of the house – and the sooner the better. Although difficult and emotionally unnerving, I forced myself to face the task.

My step-mom allowed me to fill a white plastic bag with his things – with shaky hands, I gathered up his gold watch I had helped him pick out; a favorite tie he always bragged that I bought him one Father’s Day; some flannel shirts I planned to make a quilt for my son out of as an heirloom; his black doctor’s bag; his wedding band to my Mom; and so on.

I left the house just crushed with unstoppable tears raining down from my swollen face. I sat in my car in his driveway crying like a baby for what felt like an hour before I could pull it together enough to drive slowly away.

The white bag went into the trunk of the car, and there it stayed. I couldn’t bring it into my house, because that would mean that I’d have to go through it all again and find a home for each priceless item.

So, I drove around for weeks with his mementos in my truck.

Until one day, my mom-in-law and I were going somewhere – I can’t even remember where now, but it may have been to the gardening store to buy plants. Anyway, we needed my trunk.

Trying to remain emotionally unattached, I quickly grabbed the bag and stashed it onto a corner of our closed-in porch.

The next morning, my husband went off to work as usual. I got the kids ready and onto the bus and got quickly dressed for work. A typical morning.

As I was rushing out the door to my car, I remembered the bag was on the porch and wanted to put it back into my trunk, except, when I went to retrieve it, you guessed it, the bag was now gone.

Gone.

I called my husband at work. Panic swept over me. My voice shaking, my heart pounding inside my chest, I asked him quietly and as steadily as I could if he had moved the white bag on the porch. He all-too-quickly replied, yes, he had put it out with the trash. The trash that had been picked up hours ago. My Dad’s memories were gone.

Wait. What?

My Dad’s memories were gone.

Gone?

Really gone?

To the dump?

How -? No. No possible way could I get a white bag back from the dump now.

The stuff was gone.

Really, really, truly, absolutely, gone. Forever.

And I lost control as all these thoughts went racing through my head.

When I made the purpose of my call clear, my husband and I flew into this rapid, paniked conversation that went something like this: My God, honey, I feel so terrible, he said. I know, I know, I can’t believe my Dad’s things are gone, I cried. Why did you guys put his stuff in a white trash bag? Because it was the only bag big enough that she had, I sobbed. Why did you leave it on the porch where we usually put the trash from the house to go to the curb? I don’t know because I didn’t want to think about the bag and what was inside and because I hadn’t meant to keep it there for more than a few hours and forgot it was trash night and …. it’s gone. It’s all gone.

And it sunk in deeper.

Nothing from my Mom. Nothing from my brother. Nothing left from my Dad.

What family memories do I have now? What is left of my family now?

I had to hang up the phone. I didn’t even remember he was still there on the other end crying with me.

I sat on the steps crying, crying, crying.

I barely noticed the big brown UPS truck pull up in front of my steps where I sat, shaking, sobbing, barely keeping a grip on the phone with my head hung down to my knees.

“A package for Amy Graver,” he said.

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“Sign here,” he said ignoring that I was completely having a major meltdown.

“Thanks,” I think I replied -? I barely lifted up my head to sign, noticing his truck parked where the empty garbage cans stood.

He handed me a brown package.

Huh?

I didn’t remember ordering anything. Not recently.

I opened the small brown box with my tears making dark spots on the cardboard as they hit it. Inside was a book I recognized well. A book my Dad wrote many years ago. The only book my Dad ever wrote. I remember him writing it in his study night after night when I was in high school. I was so proud of him for writing that book. It was a book about how to get into medical school. He was asked to write the book as the beloved former Dean of Admissions for Yale School of Medicine, as an expert in his field.

I never had my own copy. There was always a few copies at my Dad’s house so I suppose I never thought about keeping one at mine. I was completely thrown. And puzzled. I opened the book to the dedication page. I couldn’t remember what the dedication had said. I knew my Dad read it out loud to me years ago, but it never held the gravitas that it did in this moment. I sat there, through teary eyes, in the warm morning light, taking in each and every word for its full meaning. He was speaking to me right at that moment. Pay attention, Amy – listen to his what he is trying to tell you.

“To David and Amy, the “dynamic duo” who make it all worthwhile and To the memory of Joan, who made a remarkable contribution to my well-being and remains a continuing inspiration.”

And that there is the lesson. THE LESSON. If I forgot all the others, this is the one to remember always.

At the very moment that I realized I lost all my family possessions, my Dad reminded me of life’s most important lesson.

It’s not the things. It’s the people. It’s the memories. It’s the stories. It’s the love. That’s what makes life worthwhile.

You can take everything away from me. Everything.

But you can never take away the life I have now, or the life I had then, with my family. You can’t sell the love we all shared in a tag sale. The garbage truck cannot pick up and haul off my memories. These are my treasures to keep forever. They are all I ever need. I keep them in a place far safer than the trunk of my car. And I share my stories with my children every chance I get about their Poppy, Uncle David and Grandma Joan, my mom.

Those are mine. And no one can take them nor will I ever lose them.

It is reassuring to me that my Dad, even beyond his sad parting on this earth, is still teaching me lessons. He was there that day, I’m sure of it. The timing of his book arrival just at the precise moment I realized I lost everything – yeah, that’s him.

So his lesson is now yours. Do with it what you will. I know what I’m doing with it. I’m going to keep it.

And so finally, on this great man’s birthday, I send this out into the universe: You are missed, Dad. You are loved. You are not forgotten. You are with me still. We talk about you. We laugh with you. We keep you present. Always.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

And thank you for all those lessons. I wish I could remember all of them, but keep ’em coming. You know I need them still.

Your favorite daughter, your student, your friend –

xo

~Amy