A letter to Dad...
Just came across this letter... Sad, but there is something to be learned here. My father was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer in Oct 1990. He gave treatment a shot, but died in April 1991. I was very fortunate to be able to write this letter to him...I believe it's important for all of us "macho" sons to tell our fathers how we feel.
Dear Dad,
Mom just gave me the news of your probable release from the hospital. Using the words of another, this is really a “Hallelujah.” You did it again, Dad—defied all odds as well as the expectations of the doctors. I know you are excited and encouraged about your future. I am. I should have known you could deal with the radiation sickness, as you will handle the ordeal of cancer. Nevertheless, it genuinely scared me when the doctors called the family together in preparation for your death. I will never forget the elegiac quality of mother’s phone call, “The doctor said your Dad is a very sick man and his chances aren’t very good. You need to come now.” It definitely made me consider the realities of life.
Many years ago, you taught me the immutable fact that life isn’t always fair. Well, this is one of those times; it’s just not fair. Why would anyone have to go through the pain and suffering of cancer, not just the physical pain, but the mental pain, the trepidation of imminent death? “You’ll understand when you’re my age,” you told me in the hospital. I know you’re correct, but right now I feel a little lost. I can’t imagine what it will be like not to have a father: someone to go to for advice, or support, or just to talk to in the morning over a cup of coffee, or all those other times when fathers are especially important—like making that special card and phoning you on your birthday.
When I saw the second and third degree radiation burns on both sides of your neck, and the excruciating pain you were experiencing from the severe radiation burns on your esophagus and stomach, I felt completely helpless. The feeling I had was much like the role reversal that sometimes occurs with children who mistakenly believe they know what is best for their parents. I wanted to make your pain go away, to comfort you as I would my children, to trade lives with you so you could walk out of the hospital and go home, your life returning to normal. I honestly believe it would be easier for me to endure your mental and physical pain than to bear the emotional pain I feel with your suffering.
I was also appalled at your physical condition. How could any physician allow this kind of life‑threatening damage? I realize that intense radiation is often used as a substitute for tumor removal when surgery is not feasible because of other problems. But, irradiated patients should not only be carefully watched for signs of radiation induced pneumonia, but for acute radiation sickness as well. Wouldn’t it be a terrible shame to die of a prescribed treatment simply because a physician did not monitor your condition? I realize not all physicians are good at dealing directly with patients, but when an individual is responsible for a human life, there is no latitude for mistakes—close supervision and constant evaluation of the patient take priority over everything.
At the same time, and as much as I want to deny it, I know you have lung cancer, an inoperable bronchogenic carcinoma. This is undeniably a pernicious disease that requires serious treatment, even the life‑threatening combination of chemotherapy and radiation. At least there is a chance of recovery with drastic therapy; consider the result of no treatment. Besides, the combination of multiple drug chemotherapy with radiotherapy sometimes yields higher survival rates than surgery. As a matter of fact, these newer protocols have been reported to show more response, longer survival, and even some cures.
“The things most worthwhile are never easy,” you always say. Well, what you are facing now is definitely not easy. I am having trouble understanding the worth too. Is it to teach those around you the value and importance of inner strength, or determination, or acceptance of the realities of life? If so, it’s a hard lesson you have to present. Like I have always said, “Dying is easy, it’s the living that’s hard.” This is also the kind of situation that builds disillusionment with God; why would God allow us to suffer so? This question can’t be answered. It doesn’t need an answer though.
Our hope for eternal life in the hereafter does not just spring from a longing for spiritual existence, but grows out of our love for life upon this earth, which we have known and found good. No one wants to die, but if death is going to occur, and it will, then knowing we have given life makes it easier. And you have given life, Dad. Not just mine, but also to a multitude of others that have known you: the men in battle that owe you their lives as a result of your leadership and what you taught them, a son and a daughter, six grandchildren, and, of course, Mom. There are countless others, too.
I know you are happy with your life. How could you feel otherwise with all the great memories you have? After all, isn’t that what life is—memories? Not even counting 50 years with the same, wonderful woman, you have the experience and memories of five average lifetimes. Remember, you have successfully completed three careers, experienced three major wars and countless lesser conflicts, and have personally known many peoples of the world while living much of your life in strange and faraway places. You take for granted much that most people haven’t even experienced. I know you feel fortunate.
I feel fortunate, too. You see, I got to go with you to many of these places, to experience and learn and grow. I am fortunate because I was able to spend the most important time of my life with you, my childhood. Isn’t it also fortunate we have been able to experience the personal closeness we have acquired over the last couple of decades? Many fathers and sons never realize this intimacy.
Also, in a strange sort of way, I feel fortunate now. I believe the opportunity to write this letter is a privilege; many sons never get the chance to tell their fathers how they feel. It seems our egos and the macho image we have to display prevents many of us from expressing our true feelings. Well, I’m going to put my “machoism” in my back pocket for a while. Nothing is now more important than conveying to you my feelings and thoughts.
And I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately, from cabbages to kings, but mostly about my life’s time—all the things I’ve done and how its been—about how I came to be what I am today. “You’re just like your Dad,” my lovely wife says when she believes I am being meticulous. I like hearing this. You taught me well; if I’m going to do something, I’ll do it properly. I wasn’t born this way either, I learned from the standards you set for yourself. “You are what your parents are,” I always say. I feel very fortunate to have learned the best way; I was taught by example.
Teaching me wasn’t always easy either. I regret the frustrations I sometimes caused you. I know I was a temerarious child. But, you know the old saying, “The arrogance of the young is a direct result of not having known enough consequences. The turkey that every day greedily approaches the farmer who tosses him grain is not wrong. It is just that he has never experienced Thanksgiving.”
When you’re young you tell yourself, “I’m not going to make the same mistakes my father made.” But, as you grow older and more mature, you realize your father didn’t make as many mistakes as you thought. Isn’t it interesting that the older I get, the smarter you get? I have finally learned, Dad, that wisdom comes not from a book, but from life’s experiences. Unfortunately, we don’t always learn from other’s experiences though. We must walk the fire ourselves.
I was indubitably one of those children that had to walk a lot of fire, too. Remember when I drove your new Mercury Turnpike Cruiser into the sandy creek bottom nearly destroying the car, or when I almost became a high school drop‑out? You never punished me for these stupid acts. Somehow, in your infinite wisdom you knew I didn’t need punishment, I had learned. I will never forget you saying, “You punished yourself, you learned your lesson.” That is what I love most about you: your understanding and wisdom. That’s what being a good father is all about, being wise enough to teach your children so they can go into the world as mature, hardworking, responsible adults. I never had any doubt that you always had my best interests at heart. You were always willing, ready, and able to put out the fire before it hurt me—even if it also burned you. You allowed me to learn those important lessons, but made sure I wasn’t permanently injured when I had to walk the fire. You taught me well. I will do the same for my children.
Of course, there are those good times that stand out, too. Like when you took me to the white beaches of Guam and swam with me in the crystal clear waters; you opened the door to my lifelong fascination of strange and wonderful creatures, removing forever my fear of the unknown and the unusual. And, when our trip on the glass bottom boat in Okinawa was cut short because mother became seasick; you taught me consideration. Then, when we climbed and climbed and climbed the mountains in search of Dall Sheep, I learned not to quit; I learned my body could do more than I believed. Neither of us will every forget the Alaskan bear hunt; I learned to face danger and fear with control. You are directly responsible for my surviving the rigors of bloodshed in Viet Nam and the battle wounds I received. Dad, you have given me life more than once, with your strength, your support, your presence. Even during those times when we were not together, you have always been with me in mind and soul.
I remember, once when I was very young, my Boy Scout troop had a father and son camping trip. Going on this trip was the most important thing in the world to me, but you were in Korea. Oddly enough, even at my youthful age I realized you obviously couldn’t take me and I held no resentment. Someone volunteered to go as my father. An admirable act to me now, but at the time I resented anyone thinking they could take your place. I handled this in an interesting manner; I imagined with all my heart that you were there. Every time I saw my “substitute” father, I pretended it was really you. To this day, I can still see you camping with me; indeed, you will always be with me in mind and soul.
I had to write this letter, Dad, to thank you for a great life. While this letter is especially for you, it is also for the other fathers and their children that have experienced, or will experience the harsh realities we are facing. I know this letter was difficult to read. It was also difficult to write. No amount of descriptive writing can convey the immeasurable admiration and love I have for you. I am a life you have given, your legacy. I am a part of you. You will not be forgotten.
Loving always,
Your son, Michael
Dear Dad,
Mom just gave me the news of your probable release from the hospital. Using the words of another, this is really a “Hallelujah.” You did it again, Dad—defied all odds as well as the expectations of the doctors. I know you are excited and encouraged about your future. I am. I should have known you could deal with the radiation sickness, as you will handle the ordeal of cancer. Nevertheless, it genuinely scared me when the doctors called the family together in preparation for your death. I will never forget the elegiac quality of mother’s phone call, “The doctor said your Dad is a very sick man and his chances aren’t very good. You need to come now.” It definitely made me consider the realities of life.
Many years ago, you taught me the immutable fact that life isn’t always fair. Well, this is one of those times; it’s just not fair. Why would anyone have to go through the pain and suffering of cancer, not just the physical pain, but the mental pain, the trepidation of imminent death? “You’ll understand when you’re my age,” you told me in the hospital. I know you’re correct, but right now I feel a little lost. I can’t imagine what it will be like not to have a father: someone to go to for advice, or support, or just to talk to in the morning over a cup of coffee, or all those other times when fathers are especially important—like making that special card and phoning you on your birthday.
When I saw the second and third degree radiation burns on both sides of your neck, and the excruciating pain you were experiencing from the severe radiation burns on your esophagus and stomach, I felt completely helpless. The feeling I had was much like the role reversal that sometimes occurs with children who mistakenly believe they know what is best for their parents. I wanted to make your pain go away, to comfort you as I would my children, to trade lives with you so you could walk out of the hospital and go home, your life returning to normal. I honestly believe it would be easier for me to endure your mental and physical pain than to bear the emotional pain I feel with your suffering.
I was also appalled at your physical condition. How could any physician allow this kind of life‑threatening damage? I realize that intense radiation is often used as a substitute for tumor removal when surgery is not feasible because of other problems. But, irradiated patients should not only be carefully watched for signs of radiation induced pneumonia, but for acute radiation sickness as well. Wouldn’t it be a terrible shame to die of a prescribed treatment simply because a physician did not monitor your condition? I realize not all physicians are good at dealing directly with patients, but when an individual is responsible for a human life, there is no latitude for mistakes—close supervision and constant evaluation of the patient take priority over everything.
At the same time, and as much as I want to deny it, I know you have lung cancer, an inoperable bronchogenic carcinoma. This is undeniably a pernicious disease that requires serious treatment, even the life‑threatening combination of chemotherapy and radiation. At least there is a chance of recovery with drastic therapy; consider the result of no treatment. Besides, the combination of multiple drug chemotherapy with radiotherapy sometimes yields higher survival rates than surgery. As a matter of fact, these newer protocols have been reported to show more response, longer survival, and even some cures.
“The things most worthwhile are never easy,” you always say. Well, what you are facing now is definitely not easy. I am having trouble understanding the worth too. Is it to teach those around you the value and importance of inner strength, or determination, or acceptance of the realities of life? If so, it’s a hard lesson you have to present. Like I have always said, “Dying is easy, it’s the living that’s hard.” This is also the kind of situation that builds disillusionment with God; why would God allow us to suffer so? This question can’t be answered. It doesn’t need an answer though.
Our hope for eternal life in the hereafter does not just spring from a longing for spiritual existence, but grows out of our love for life upon this earth, which we have known and found good. No one wants to die, but if death is going to occur, and it will, then knowing we have given life makes it easier. And you have given life, Dad. Not just mine, but also to a multitude of others that have known you: the men in battle that owe you their lives as a result of your leadership and what you taught them, a son and a daughter, six grandchildren, and, of course, Mom. There are countless others, too.
I know you are happy with your life. How could you feel otherwise with all the great memories you have? After all, isn’t that what life is—memories? Not even counting 50 years with the same, wonderful woman, you have the experience and memories of five average lifetimes. Remember, you have successfully completed three careers, experienced three major wars and countless lesser conflicts, and have personally known many peoples of the world while living much of your life in strange and faraway places. You take for granted much that most people haven’t even experienced. I know you feel fortunate.
I feel fortunate, too. You see, I got to go with you to many of these places, to experience and learn and grow. I am fortunate because I was able to spend the most important time of my life with you, my childhood. Isn’t it also fortunate we have been able to experience the personal closeness we have acquired over the last couple of decades? Many fathers and sons never realize this intimacy.
Also, in a strange sort of way, I feel fortunate now. I believe the opportunity to write this letter is a privilege; many sons never get the chance to tell their fathers how they feel. It seems our egos and the macho image we have to display prevents many of us from expressing our true feelings. Well, I’m going to put my “machoism” in my back pocket for a while. Nothing is now more important than conveying to you my feelings and thoughts.
And I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately, from cabbages to kings, but mostly about my life’s time—all the things I’ve done and how its been—about how I came to be what I am today. “You’re just like your Dad,” my lovely wife says when she believes I am being meticulous. I like hearing this. You taught me well; if I’m going to do something, I’ll do it properly. I wasn’t born this way either, I learned from the standards you set for yourself. “You are what your parents are,” I always say. I feel very fortunate to have learned the best way; I was taught by example.
Teaching me wasn’t always easy either. I regret the frustrations I sometimes caused you. I know I was a temerarious child. But, you know the old saying, “The arrogance of the young is a direct result of not having known enough consequences. The turkey that every day greedily approaches the farmer who tosses him grain is not wrong. It is just that he has never experienced Thanksgiving.”
When you’re young you tell yourself, “I’m not going to make the same mistakes my father made.” But, as you grow older and more mature, you realize your father didn’t make as many mistakes as you thought. Isn’t it interesting that the older I get, the smarter you get? I have finally learned, Dad, that wisdom comes not from a book, but from life’s experiences. Unfortunately, we don’t always learn from other’s experiences though. We must walk the fire ourselves.
I was indubitably one of those children that had to walk a lot of fire, too. Remember when I drove your new Mercury Turnpike Cruiser into the sandy creek bottom nearly destroying the car, or when I almost became a high school drop‑out? You never punished me for these stupid acts. Somehow, in your infinite wisdom you knew I didn’t need punishment, I had learned. I will never forget you saying, “You punished yourself, you learned your lesson.” That is what I love most about you: your understanding and wisdom. That’s what being a good father is all about, being wise enough to teach your children so they can go into the world as mature, hardworking, responsible adults. I never had any doubt that you always had my best interests at heart. You were always willing, ready, and able to put out the fire before it hurt me—even if it also burned you. You allowed me to learn those important lessons, but made sure I wasn’t permanently injured when I had to walk the fire. You taught me well. I will do the same for my children.
Of course, there are those good times that stand out, too. Like when you took me to the white beaches of Guam and swam with me in the crystal clear waters; you opened the door to my lifelong fascination of strange and wonderful creatures, removing forever my fear of the unknown and the unusual. And, when our trip on the glass bottom boat in Okinawa was cut short because mother became seasick; you taught me consideration. Then, when we climbed and climbed and climbed the mountains in search of Dall Sheep, I learned not to quit; I learned my body could do more than I believed. Neither of us will every forget the Alaskan bear hunt; I learned to face danger and fear with control. You are directly responsible for my surviving the rigors of bloodshed in Viet Nam and the battle wounds I received. Dad, you have given me life more than once, with your strength, your support, your presence. Even during those times when we were not together, you have always been with me in mind and soul.
I remember, once when I was very young, my Boy Scout troop had a father and son camping trip. Going on this trip was the most important thing in the world to me, but you were in Korea. Oddly enough, even at my youthful age I realized you obviously couldn’t take me and I held no resentment. Someone volunteered to go as my father. An admirable act to me now, but at the time I resented anyone thinking they could take your place. I handled this in an interesting manner; I imagined with all my heart that you were there. Every time I saw my “substitute” father, I pretended it was really you. To this day, I can still see you camping with me; indeed, you will always be with me in mind and soul.
I had to write this letter, Dad, to thank you for a great life. While this letter is especially for you, it is also for the other fathers and their children that have experienced, or will experience the harsh realities we are facing. I know this letter was difficult to read. It was also difficult to write. No amount of descriptive writing can convey the immeasurable admiration and love I have for you. I am a life you have given, your legacy. I am a part of you. You will not be forgotten.
Loving always,
Your son, Michael
posted by David M. Couch | 2:25 PM
2 Comments:
This is a quote: "You taught me well. I will do the same for my children." I pray you're not claiming you followed through on this. I knew your father, and he was a much better man than I know you have been. I respect your father very much, and wish that his influence on you had been a bit more indicative of what you would really become. I read your letter to your daughter and found it quite contradictory. You say your son (I'm assuming he's adopted as you certainly favor your daughter over her "half brothers.") told your daughter that you were trying to buy her love, and you deny it in the letter. And yet the last paragraph(of your letter to your daughter) is PURE BRIBERY. You seem like an intelligent man, but at the same time, you spout rhetoric that seems like a shell concealing something much more disquieting. You need to learn that you cannot manipulate your daughter. Let her make her own decision, or she'll see you as exactly what you're coming across as.
The following is a "general" response. I can provide details and original court documents as well... But, you'll have to sign your name to any further comments...
Acrimonious…? You bet it is.
Well, Folks… I received a comment about my open letter to my darling daughter, Kristin. Of the many comments I’ve received, this is the first really scary one, the first bad one. Actually, as a rule I don’t even respond to this type of attack especially when it comes from Mr. or Mrs. Anonymous. But, in this case, I must make some general comments because so many of you are reading my blog and closely following my new posts. And, since Kristin may read it, I believe it would be unfair to her to create such a debate dilemma. Talk about confusion…gosh, I’m a bit worried now what she may be going through because of me. But, I do have a lot of faith in her so all will work out like it should. Clearly, there are two sides to every story and she is old enough to make up her own mind.
Still, I’m not impressed with “Anonymous.” At least, and to some people’s chagrin, I’ve always had enough grit to stand up and look someone straight in the eyes and say what I wanted to say. I’ve always thought that if an individual was going to say something…they should not be afraid to put their name on it. After all, if one is afraid to include their name, then doesn’t it indicate that they are so insecure, so paranoid, so unsure that the validity of what they say comes into question.
So, to the first statement from Mr/Mrs Anonymous that comes from “A Letter To Dad.”: This is a quote: "You taught me well. I will do the same for my children." I pray you're not claiming you followed through on this. I knew your father, and he was a much better man than I know you have been. I respect your father very much, and wish that his influence on you had been a bit more indicative of what you would really become.”
Makes me think that maybe I should join a “religious cult” so I could be prayed for and be more submissive and lose my freedom of thought. First, I seriously doubt that Mr/Mrs Anonymous really “knew” my father. They certainly don’t know him now…since he died a hard death in 1991. Yes, he was a fine man and a truly hard act to follow--nearly impossible I think. I never thought it was smart to try and compete with him…and, I never even tried because I would have lost. He, of course, had his weak points and his strong points—as we all do. But, I seriously doubt anyone other than my mother (deceased) and my sister could have respected him as much as I did. He will not be forgotten. And, followed through on what…? Teaching…? Oh, I taught the children and touched their lives. Unfortunately, I was “jerked” from their lives because of a divorce and an incredibly acrimonious woman that would say anything to hurt me and improve her position—a story of her life actually. Yes, that is quite sad to me as well. It’ll serve no purpose now to go into what happened.
And, the next comment from Mr/Mrs Anonymous. (Sounds like Mr/Mrs Anonymous has a personal interest in this.): I read your letter to your daughter and found it quite contradictory. You say your son (I'm assuming he's adopted as you certainly favor your daughter over her "half brothers.") told your daughter that you were trying to buy her love, and you deny it in the letter. And yet the last paragraph(of your letter to your daughter) is PURE BRIBERY. You seem like an intelligent man, but at the same time, you spout rhetoric that seems like a shell concealing something much more disquieting. You need to learn that you cannot manipulate your daughter. Let her make her own decision, or she'll see you as exactly what you're coming across as.
Contradictory…? I don’t think so, but this is a rambling letter to my daughter, an attempt on my part to let her see my heart, to know her Dad so that when she is my age (old), she won’t have quite so many regrets as she thinks back on her life. Yes, sometimes I’m not as good as I should be in telling someone that I love them, or that I even care. I am trying to improve on that… Still, nothing is now more important than conveying the truth to Kristin. I believe my faith and trust in her abilities are clearly stated in my letter to her.
Favor my daughter over my sons…? Adopted…? Mr/Mrs Anonymous must live in Brainerd or Baxter, Minnesota (Crow Wing County). And, yes, they are adopted. Fine boys I think. It’s truly unfortunate that I was unable to get them the counseling they needed when they were 10 years old–this again goes back to the nasty divorce. I was terribly misled about the first 5 years of the boy’s lives. Actually, I understand that their true father has come back into their lives. And, he is a fine man. I am still proud of them and watch from the sidelines…but, I backed out of their lives in favor of their ‘real” father since I believe it’s in their best interests. Isn’t preparing our children to go into the world as hard working, responsible adults what it’s all about. Besides, these young men are married and raising their own children now…they are full grown and pretty much on their own. And, it wasn’t their Dad that caused the boys problems early in their life as I was told…
And, the next comment from Mr/Mrs Anonymous: …told your daughter that you were trying to buy her love, and you deny it in the letter. Not much explanation needed here. Anyone with any reasonable intelligence knows you can’t buy love… Well, maybe friendship. At least until the money goes away and then the friend goes away.
And finally, the most disturbing part of the comment from Mr/Mrs Anonymous: And yet the last paragraph(of your letter to your daughter) is PURE BRIBERY. You seem like an intelligent man, but at the same time, you spout rhetoric that seems like a shell concealing something much more disquieting. You need to learn that you cannot manipulate your daughter. Let her make her own decision, or she'll see you as exactly what you're coming across as. First, I must say that this writing sounds much like what a “leader” in a religious cult might say to attack me, to convince me to join their cult so I would see the world only like they wanted me to see it. Certainly chock full of anger. You know, like the anger a paranoid schizophrenic demonstrates with their “enemy.” Maybe even sociopathic I think. This does concern me greatly too. Obviously, Kristin has been manipulated since the divorce. Just think, I am her father…why, is it so unattainable for me to see her? To even talk to her on the phone, or email messages? Why do you believe I have to resort to “open letters” to even try to communicate with her? Clearly, someone doesn’t want her to know me. Has she been sucked into a religious cult…? Have they taken her freedom to think…? This is the kind of horror stuff we see all to often…you know, children shut in basements, kept from watching TV, hidden from the trials and tribulations of the real world that one day they’ll have to deal with…all in the name of “protecting” them from the world. Good grief! What chance of success is there for these children. How do they learn to cope with the real world, the world where we all must live.
Okay, and finally: PURE BRIBERY… This is likely just a case of standards that we as individuals are used to... But, just because I can easily afford these things, and Mr/Mrs Anonymous can’t…doesn’t make me wrong. Actually, I see nothing wrong with providing my daughter with nice things that I can afford…stuff that many of her peers enjoy. My parents bought me a car during high school and one for my graduation—and taught me responsibility. They bought me a 4X5 Speed Graphic Camera and a complete darkroom when I was a high school junior, forever opening my eyes to the world of light and imagination. There was a lot more too.
Mr/Mrs Anonymous why are you attacking me—I mean, the real reason…?
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