My mom and dad were reluctant immigrants from Ireland, arriving here in 1958, the year I was born. The streets of NYC were not paved with gold for them.
And my father’s social drinking habits became full-on alcoholism in the new world. Despite this, my old man was grounded in his Irish-Catholic faith.
His work ethic was unmatched, too. It is truly tragic his demons did not allow him to make a better life for himself and the family. As a kid, I never
really appreciated what he must have been going through, what “drove him to drink”, if you will. Now, at age 62, I can tell you, I do now.
While his demeanor was rough, as was his discipline at times, I can see now how it helped keep me on the straight and narrow. I might have lived in
fear of him then, but what would my life have been like without him?
The year before he died, I got divorced. I will never forget how we ran into each other on the sidewalk near to where I grew up. He was in rough shape,
and we did not realize at that time just how sick he was with massive cancer that would kill him in the year to follow. In that conversation, it
was as though it was the first time we ever actually connected, man to man, so to speak. I could tell he was feeling that, too. He went as far
as to offer to head around the corner to the local tavern to continue the discussion over a beer.
And I refused. I made up some excuse. I regret that to this day.
My reflex to say no was steeped in years of pain and deprivation. I could not overcome it in that moment. And that moment never came again.
A year later, after he endured 16 hours of surgery that could only be characterized as medieval, I visited him in the recovery room. His head was so
swollen from the procedures, I did not recognize him at first. It was the first time I ever said “I love you” to him. I believe he mouthed the
same words back to me. Six months later, he was found dead on the sidewalk. Apparently his trachea tube got clogged up, and he lost consciousness.
Through most of my life, my instinct was to take care of my suffering Irish mother, who also had a terribly hard life. I did not see or appreciate
my dad’s humanity through most of it, not until the eleventh hour.
It was only after he was gone that I recognized that he, too, deserved some of the credit for making me who I am now. Whatever ability I have to endure
the difficulties of life also came from him, and, dad, if you are listening, I just wanted to say thank you. May you be resting in the peace of
Christ.
Submitted by John