My Dad was a military man through and through. He loved us, he loved my Mom, he loved his country and he loved its flag. He served in World War II. Army Corps of Engineers. I have pictures of him. Young, rugged, handsome. Looking at the camera with that “aw shucks ma’am, just doing my job” grin. A grin so starkly contrasted by the background of war-torn Germany. Just another soldier doing what his country asked.
My Dad started out as an enlisted man, putting in his time and getting out. He then discovered that the “outside world” wasn’t as ordered and as disciplined as military life so, he went back. He was the second oldest person in his OCS (Officer Candidate School) class and finished at the top. With that he was off to Korea and landed in Okinawa where he met my Mom.
Dad gave his life to the Army. Often working six or seven days a week, he was off to work by 5:30 AM and usually didn’t get home until after 7:00 PM. When Vietnam reared its ugly head, there was no question, he wanted to go. It was his job; it was what he was good at. It was his duty. Mom intervened and told him if he went, he would come home to no wife and no kids. He took the “not-so-subtle hint” and begrudgingly retired.
One of my favorite memories of our time together was going to football games. He worked for Nestles and, through his connections there, would get a pair of tickets to an occasional game. It was there that I discovered Dad’s love of the flag. For the Star Spangled Banner, we always stood and put our hand over our hearts, that was a given. At one game, I happened to look at Dad and noticed he was intent on the flag. Looking closer, I could tell his eyes were moist. He loved the flag and took great pains to instill that love in us. Growing up on military bases, the flag was always front and center. I remember having to stop as they struck the colors and played Retreat. Honoring the military traditions. That was something for which Dad was always a stickler. We always had to show respect for the flag. And for all things military. I think I knew the proper way to answer the phone shortly after I learned to speak, “Captain’s quarters, David speaking,” was the mantra and woe to me, if when fooling around, I didn’t answer the phone correctly.
When I graduated from college, I took a job close to home but was so busy we very rarely had time to see each other. I moved around quite a bit job wise but always managed to stay fairly close to home. I was working at an Engineering Firm as a “Document Coordination Technician (my fancy title for a ‘File Clerk’),” when I received a call from Mom saying that they discovered a mass in Dad’s mouth when he went in for routine dental work. They were going to run some tests but they were pretty sure it was malignant.
And so began the roller coaster ride of cancer. There were days when we’d get good news and think that he had beaten it. Then there were days of the not so good news when we thought it had beaten him. Through it all, Dad was stoic. He was a soldier and he approached this as he would any other battle. He listened to every word the doctors and nurses told him and carried out their orders to the letter. They told him to cough, to keep the gunk from building up in his lungs. He did it with such gusto; he drove everyone out of the lounge with his overenthusiastic hacking. I could hardly get a word in edgewise. I remember him telling me fourteen laps of the ward equaled one mile. I don’t know how many laps he did, but I’ll bet it drove the staff crazy.
Between treatments, he tried going home for a brief time but that drove both him and my Mom crazy. She so wanted to help him and waited on him hand and foot. He was so used to being independent and had the hardest time accepting her hovering over him. Going to work was hard as well. He always said an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. It killed him when he had to leave early because he was so tired. Dad returned to the hospital, a military hospital. Ironically, Dad was more at home there.
Unfortunately it was two-and-a-half hours from our house. Because Mom didn’t drive, she could only see him a couple of days a week, going up on the bus. I lived about an hour away and would leave work each night and go up and visit for a couple of hours. He would always wait for me in the lounge and, as I drove into the parking lot, I could see him standing in the window up above. It lingers as one of my fondest memories. Some nights brought idle chit-chat, others, we said things that needed to be said. I told him about times I felt I disappointed him and he reaffirmed how proud he was of me. He told the story of actually getting so angry with me when I was little that he smashed my train set into little pieces in front of me. I think we were both crying as he apologized.
He had the most beautiful handwriting. He loved to write and wrote incredibly detailed and beautiful letters. One day, the doctor came into the room and asked him to sign something. He turned to me and told me to do it. I didn’t think much of it until Mom told me that he asked me to do because he couldn’t, that the cancer had spread to his brain and his fine muscle coordination was failing. Dad never let on.
Toward the end, I remember the doctor telling Mom there wasn’t any more they could do. It had spread throughout his body and it was just a matter of time. Mom swore that Dad, apparently sleeping in the room, had overheard the conversation and it took the wind out of his sails. The doctor had given him two weeks but the nurse on duty said it could be anytime. From that day I learned to always listen to the nurses. Mom wondered if she should come up in the middle of the week. I told her no, that the weekend would probably be better. The next morning she called to say he had died that night. The biggest regret of my life was not being there with him.
My Dad was one of the kindest, gentlest, most loving people I knew. He bent over backward to provide for us, working long hours and doing whatever he had to do so we wouldn’t go without. I never realized how much until much later in life. He never let on with how much he struggled. He loved us, he loved my Mom, he loved his country and he loved its flag. That was obvious, even in end. Perhaps most especially in the end as evidenced by the day he died: Tuesday, June 14, 1983…Flag Day.
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