I have used this blog to mostly discuss legal, theological, and moral issues, trying to speak to their intersection. I have on occasion spoken about my own frailties in order that you might come to learn a bit more about me and so understand why I come to the conclusions I write about. (Oh that really felt good - ending a sentence in a preposition . . . ahhhhh - sorry Josh Rowland).
On Father's Day I did something terrible and grotesquely despicable - I didn't call my Dad! I didn't send him a card, either.
I have written previously about how much my Dad has meant to me over the years and his influence on me. I won't rehash that here.
He is now in the throes of immense dementia. He remembers only snippets about who he is. I guess in part, I put off calling because every time I think about talking with him now, I cry. My dad, the greatest man I have ever known, is simply not there anymore. Yes, once in a while he surfaces with that sly, I've got my hand in the cookie jar look that he often used in the past. Yes, once in a while he surfaces with a funny comment (although he doesn't know he's being funny - I guess). My sister Becky sends texts with such moments - one for instance:
Becky: Dad, why are you yelling?
Dad: Because I feel like it.
That would be exactly the kind of sassy comment he would make. I miss my Dad. I can't tell you how many times we talked Giants football, or politics, or religion, or family. Now we can't.
So I put off calling him. I know I was wrong. I hope that if somewhere deep down he remembers and misses our talks, that he's forgiven me for not calling. I will call tomorrow night when I take my son to soccer practice. Even if all he says is hello, at least his voice remains. I can still hear him . . . I can still enjoy remembering.
If you have a Dad who doesn't remember, don't be like me. Call him. If you can go see him, go see him. He might not remember one minute later that you called him or that you were there. Then again, how do you know?
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