Allow No Regrets into your World on Father’s Day
No matter the past, tell him you love him and hug him tight. You do not always get a second chance.
By Larry Peterson
My dad died suddenly during Christmas season of 1965. Yes, a long time ago: December 30, to be exact. Due to that, I have carried a regret inside me for my entire life. I still want a do-over, but it can never happen. Sometimes you just do not get a second chance. And then you live with “if only.” I have been doing that “if only” thing for a long time.
Our mom had passed on a few years earlier. She had just turned forty when leukemia killed her. Dad was crushed and began drinking, It took a few years, but his body rebelled, and he had an acute attack of pancreatitis.
I was the oldest of the five kids and, at the age of twenty, thought I was a lot smarter than I was. I’d had to put college on hold and had been working in construction since high school. We needed the money. I got home from work about six o’clock to find out he had been taken to the hospital that morning.
My sister, Carol, who was home with our younger brothers during Christmas break, had been there. She and a neighbor had taken him. When I walked into our apartment, Johnny, who was the youngest at six, started crying and blurted out, “When is Daddy coming home?” I told them all to take care of each other, and I would be back very soon.
My father was on the third floor in room 317. I was stunned at what I saw. He had a tube coming from his nose that went down into a large bottle on the floor. Brownish-red gunk was draining from inside of him into that bottle. It was disgusting. My gag reflex kicked in. I could not walk over to the bed.
A doctor came up behind me and introduced himself. He was taking care of dad, and he gave me a quick rundown. I was hardly listening. He knew I was nervous, so he said, “Walk in with me.”
I did, and I have no idea what I said to my dad. The doctor began feeling Dad’s belly and looking at his eyes. My father had sky blue eyes, and they were fixed hard on his oldest child. He must have been wondering why his son was standing about five feet away from the bed. I could not speak because I was trying to be grown-up and not throw up.
The doctor left, and some words of twenty-year-old wisdom babbled form my lips about stopping drinking and eating better. He never responded but just kept looking at me. He was scared, and I did not see that. I said, “Okay, Dad, I gotta go. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I had to get out of there.
Walking down Arthur Avenue to the bus stop I turned and looked up at his window. I began to cry. I realized I had never hugged him or said “I love you” or anything. I had just left. He was supposed to be home in a day or two; it would be okay. I could have gone back, but I did not. He died at 3 a.m, scared and alone. Why? Because I was afraid of being embarrassed and throwing up.
There it is. Therein lies my regret: never having said, “I love you” one last time and leaving my own father to die scared and alone in a strange place with strange people. Is that pathetic or what? He had just celebrated his 53rd birthday.
Father’s Day has just passed, and I have some advice to all of you who still have your fathers living. Forget the past; make sure you tell them you love them. If nearby, make sure you hug them. If far away, make sure you call them: no texting and no emailing. The day will come when you have no more second chances. You do not want to live with an “if only.”
Yes — there is a story about the five of us “orphans”: The Priest and the Peaches.
Copyright ©Larry Peterson 2019
So we come back to the little shepherd boy. I hear his drums, “pa rum pa pum pum” a physical declaration of his heart beating with love for the king, a testimony to all that is required of us–offering our own hearts without reserve.
Advent and Christmas were always bright and happy times in my childhood home. While focus was on preparing for the coming of Christ, mixed in with that anticipation was the fun of decorating. Red was everywhere and in every room. My mother made sure our home reflected the joy heralded by the angels of peace on earth and goodwill to all men, with the manger scene a focal point. We had red plaid table cloths in the dining room and playful elves hanging from every conceivable perch. I came to love the significance of all these bright red and green decorating traditions.
