Side Notes: A Dadication.
Side Notes is a paid offering about the human experience through the personal impact of people, stories, books and music.
Tomorrow is Father’s Day, and the fact that my dad is even alive is a miracle.
After a psychotic break in 2005 and numerous suicide attempts, a quadruple bypass surgery, extensive neck and back surgery, a diagnosis of MDS and a battle with addiction he’s not only still here, but he’s doing better than ever.
I honestly cannot count the number of times I thought I might lose him, yet here I am, getting ready to taking him out for Father’s Day dinner tonight to La Grolla in St. Paul. The man grew up in a predominantly Italian and Irish neighborhood in Massachusetts, so nine times out of ten when I ask him what kind of food he wants it’s usually the same response:
“Somewhere that makes a GREAT linguini with clam sauce.”
From as early on as I can remember my dad and I just GOT each other.
He made me laugh hard all the time and as an only child, he was so goofy he was almost like a brother and a dad all in one.
As a kid I’d jump into my parent’s bed and we’d play this game we called Diner Bears, where we’d line up all my little plastic Care Bears across the bookshelf headboard and pretend they were sitting in a diner, drinking coffee and eating eggs. Then once they finished their breakfast and “shootin’ the shit” they’d go back to their construction jobs and have them all pile in a van.
On Friday nights when my mom worked at Marshall Fields he’d sneak me into his gym, where I’d ride a stationary bike and watch TV. When I’d get bored I’d watch him lift weights and I’d eventually join him after falling in love with the hip sled.
(I developed very, VERY strong quads for a 12-year-old.)
Afterwards we’d hit up Old Country Buffet where he’d get prime rib and I would make an obscenely large “salad,” composed mostly of Bacos, shredded cheese and ranch dressing.
As I got older we just grew closer, and I started being a real smartass with a wicked sense of humor. Much to my mother’s chagrin, who would often say “MARK! You can’t teach our daughter toilet humor! It’s unladylike!”
What can I say? I’m my father’s daughter and it shows.
On weekends if I were home from college we’d sit in the family room, listen to music, drink Michelob Golden Draft and smoke cigarettes. We’d swap college stories, pet our Maine Coon cat and stay up late just talking and laughing.
He’d play me Santana, I’d play him Nirvana.
In 2005 he retired early to help my mom with her business. It was like 35 years of neverending work stress and unhealed trauma came crashing down on him.
But we survived. We both did.
And it was really, REALLY hard. There were long stints of time that we simply didn’t talk at all. Father’s Days where I didn’t speak with him.
But I really think we came out the other side better for it.
Nowadays when I come visit we have coffee and donuts instead of beer and cigarettes, but we still laugh a lot. And words cannot express how grateful I am for our relationship. I know it’s rare and I know he’s beaten the odds like an Irish superman who had to navigate some really hard stuff to come out the other side a much happier human being.
A few gifts my dad has given me over the years:
His sarcastic and bone dry sense of humor.
A love for all things British comedy, starting with Faulty Towers.
A more than decent music education which included The Beatles, Los Lobos, The Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, The Moody Blues and CSNY.
An unappreciation for The Eagles (exception: the song “One of These Nights”).
Becoming a coach on my high school Speech team and helping me understand how powerful the spoken word can be.
A temper (and also how to tame it).
A full on obsession with cats.
A deep admiration for coffee and dark chocolate.
Belief in myself.
Limitless love.
Father’s Days can be really hard for some of us, and I’m holding space for you if it is.
And to the dads out there, thank you. Your impact is much more than you realize.
Cheers,