Happy Birthday to My Late Dad

I wish I had my dad with me as I face cancer. But in important ways, he's still here.

My dad would have turned 81 today.

He died last September, and I find myself thinking a lot about him lately.

My dad could be a handful. Overbearing and irritable at times. His health was increasingly poor over the past decade. And he was often deeply sad, missing my mom, who died in 2014. In many ways, his death was a relief and a blessing.

But I miss him. I miss our ritual of me talking to him on the phone outside of Maxfield’s House of Caffeine in San Francisco, where I often work. I miss his pep talks. My dad believed in my ability to make a difference.

Always did.

In recent years, he would attend virtual events I led or co-led—usually on the topic of progressive, “Teal” cultures in organizations. And he validated my sense that I was getting pretty skilled at public speaking and fun facilitation.

Right about now, I also miss my dad’s lifelong concern for my overall wellbeing. I recently was diagnosed with appendix cancer. And I know he’d wish the best outcomes for me. Would try to comfort and encourage me.

This isn’t to say he’d be terribly useful during hospital visits or calls with doctors. My dad was about as queasy as they come. Uneasy with blood and medical matters. When I was about 12, I was hit in the eye by a pebble playing street hockey. My dad nearly fainted at the news, as I recall. And I remember clearly that he opened a door in a state of panic, scraping off his big toenail in the process.

Still, there’s something reassuring about a parent being with you when you’re sick and facing a big health challenge. At least there is for me. This sentiment hit home hard as I watched the last episode of “Dying for Sex” last night. Lead character Molly, dying from cancer, can dissolve in tears in the arms of her mother. It doesn’t matter how flawed a parent Molly’s mom has been.

Today, I’m flying from San Francisco to Denver, where I’ll attend the “Big Tent Summit.” This is a gathering of folks devoted to supporting men in healthy ways. I’m coming to it inspired by my dad.

My Pop could be conventional and “confined” in how he showed up as a man. Quite the mansplainer to my mom at times. And stuck in the traditional notion that a man’s success and self-worth has largely to do with the size of his bank account.

Still, my dad demonstrated how to break out of limiting beliefs about masculinity in many ways. He was a physically affectionate father from the time my brother, sister and I were toddlers. He’d give us “Hoovers”—rapid breath-in-and-out kisses that felt like a mini vacuum cleaner on your cheek.

My dad also made way for my mom to become the breadwinner in our family. He cheerfully took on house-husband duties, adding cleaning and laundry to his long-standing practice of cooking.

And in his final act, my father epitomized the kind of man I hope to be the rest of my days. He’d had a major stroke, and was unlikely to recover many of his intellectual capabilities. My brother and I asked if he was ready for hospice—ready, in other words, to die.

My dad couldn’t really speak. But he nodded. And then he brought my hand to his mouth and gently kissed it. He did the same with my brother.

Brave. Generous. Loving.

Happy birthday, Pop. I hope you are enjoying the hereafter. And I hope you know I am carrying you with me.