Bad Heart.

Today would have been my dad's 68th birthday.  I thought about my dad even more than usual and drank a bit of Guinness with dinner to mark this day.  And here I wanted to share a few thoughts about the man that raised me.

In his favorite place: Ireland

My dad had a weak heart.   He was born with a heart condition, the name of which I can never remember, causing me to call my mom from my midwife’s office every time I am newly pregnant so she can remind me what it is that runs through my genes and could lead to trouble for the babe inside of me.  Hearts have plumbing systems and electrical systems, so to speak, and his condition had to do with his electrical system.  There was a hole, or something, and apparently it was a big deal.  My aunt said that when received word that her father, my grandfather, had passed away at first she assumed the call was about her nineteen year old brother, my dad, that the heart condition had finally taken him.  His weak heart wasn’t expected to last very long, I guess.  But you’d never know this from looking at him.

Part of why the details of my dad’s weak heart are so hazy is because I can only remember two times in my whole life when his condition ever came up.  Once he explained that he wasn’t allowed to do sports as a kid, on account of the weak heart, so that’s why he ended up participating in debate team and student council and the school plays.   Which was so like my dad, to turn lemons in to lemonade.  There wasn’t a hint of bitterness or longing when he recalled his inability to do what every other boy on the block was doing.  Just happiness over the opportunity that one closed door afforded.  The other time the weak heart came up was when he and my mom flew to Texas to see a doctor who specialized in my dad’s condition so he could fix the problem.  And he did.

My dad had a weak heart.

cheering on our team

My dad had a strong heart.  He lost his dad when he was a young man in college.  I thought about this a lot when I was in college, how much I still needed my dad at that time.  How did my dad finish learning to become a man while mourning the loss of the one who was supposed to teach him?  If it had been me I think I would have floundered for a few years in self-pity.  But not my dad.  He took his strong heart and started his career.  At age 20 he started working for the company he would retire with many years later.  And then his strong heart took care of his mom.  He played bridge with her friends and took her on trips with him. 

My dad had a strong heart.  He made strong-hearted decisions.  He followed a moral compass that led him to what was true and good.  His values and priorities lined up and his commitment to them caused him to live a life that made the lives of those around him better, not worse. 

My dad had a strong heart.

My dad had a bad heart.  When I was thirteen, awkward and gangly and in need of braces, my dad suffered his first heart attack at age forty-eight.  While his heart condition had to do with the electrical system of the heart, the heart attack was all plumbing and had nothing to do with his condition.  His arteries were clogged from too much smoking, too little exercise and a few too many trips through the drive through at his go-to lunch spot, Wendy’s.  He wasn’t extraordinarily obese and he’d certainly cut back his once two packs a day habit over the years, but it didn’t matter.  That bad heart got him. 

And I’ll never forget the sight of him in the hospital bed, so pale and weak, hooked up to machines that beeped and hummed.  Seeing us see him in this state was one of two times in my life I’d see him cry.  (The other, for the record, was when he dropped me off at University of Illinois for my freshmen year of college.)  It was the first time I think I realized my dad could die.  That this bad heart could get him in the end.  .

We all changed our lives for my dad’s bad heart.  Skim milk replaced 2%, bagels on Sunday morning instead of donuts (which was met with much weeping and gnashing of teeth).  We ate turkey burgers and oven roasted fries.  My dad joined a gym and went faithfully every morning.   But my dad had a bad heart and even though he made changes I don’t think he could every fully accept this fact.  He looked around and saw people drinking and smoking more, eating worse and working out less whose hearts could handle the abuse.  He didn’t want to accept that his bad heart couldn’t sustain it.  And so, less than twenty years after that first heart attack, his bad heart finally gave out.  Another heart attack took his life.

My dad had a bad heart.

But oh, my dad had such a good heart.  He loved so well.  Never once did I question the simple truth that my dad loved and accepted me.  He was decent and kind-hearted.  He welcomed and invited everyone who crossed his path.  People felt comfortable and accepted in his presence.  You couldn’t help but feel good about yourself with my dad.  He did that.  He made you feel like enough.

helping, always

My dad had a good heart.  He lived the life of a helper.  Letters of encouragement to friends in college, serving the community or those he worked with, my dad never seemed to turn down a chance to help someone.  I had to check with my mom first before asking him to help with the kids because he would tell me he could, even if he had work of his own to do.  He loved nothing more than to serve others (and of course spend time with his beloved grand children).

selfies with Monster

My dad had a good heart.  In the end his most defining feature was his kindness.  His big, good heart.  He loved us with that good, kind heart.  He loved my mom and my siblings and Tommy and my kids and I with everything in him.   We were the fortunate ones, the beneficiaries of his good heart. 

My dad had a weak heart, a bad heart.  My dad had a strong heart, a good heart.  I wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world.