It's been a long time since I've taken the time to write. Not even sure where I would begin to explain all that has taken place since I last sat down to put my thoughts out there.
Yes, my dad is still with us. He's hanging in there and every day that we have him here with us is a blessing.
My father is now in hospice care and has been for a few months. Surprisingly, it's not the ALS that has him there. It's the bladder cancer. It's returned and has become more aggressive. Due to the ALS and what it is has done to his body, he can no longer survive any form of treatment for the cancer so every day it continues to wreak havoc on his system as his body begins to shut down.
But I'm not here to write about my father dying today. I'm here to write about one of my fondest childhood memories that includes him and I.
My oldest son began 3rd grade last week. He started at a new school and has been looking forward to the start of a new year...except for ONE thing...running the mile for PE. We got to talking about his fear today and I told him a story of his grandfather and his mother when she was around his age.
I too had a fear of running in PE when I was Jackson's age. In 4th grade, we had to run the eight eighty (I write it out like that because I have no idea how they would write it when it comes to running)
I DREADED that run and I would often complain about it. I would drag my feet in gym class each and every day as we prepared for it and soon I made the mistake of complaining about it to my father.
Ya see, my dad is kind of a big deal when it comes to running. He was a track star in his youth and still holds track records in Gary, Indiana. In fact, the local paper in Gary recently featured an article about my father and where he is in life today. Boy...what a change there.
Instead of drying my tears about this dreaded run or writing me a note to get out of it, my dad did something a little different.
For WEEKS leading up to that test, he took me out to the school field with a stopwatch in hand and made me run. I would run...and run...and run...and he would stand there and time me. I would run until I hit a time he found acceptable. While all my other friends were out playing in their yards or riding their bikes, I was out running. Saturday and Sunday. Every week. Until the day came for the test.
The day we were set to run the eight eighty, my father showed up at school during my PE class and met the teacher out on the field. He wasn't alone though. No. He brought HIS stopwatch. He didn't trust the PE teacher to time me correctly so he relied on his OWN watch.
I. Was. Mortified.
I had NO idea he was going to show up...let alone time me himself.
The PE teacher blew his whistle and we started running. I looked at my father in the center of the field and knew I better pick up my god damn knees or there was going to be hell to pay...so I started moving.
Keep in mind I'm in 4th grade ok.....
So I'm out running and I'm passing people.
One by one I pass friend after friend...boy after boy.
Soon I start lapping people.
But because I'm a little 4th grade girl, I decide that I need to talk to my friends as I pass them. My father did not like this one bit. My father starts yelling at me, "Don't talk to your friends! RUN!"
I know he means business so I pass my friends and continue on.
I begin to lap the boys in class...and some of the faster ones too. Now my dad is REALLY getting fired up and he's yelling, "That's it!! Move your arms! Move your arms! Don't look back! Move your arms!"
My little feet kick it into high gear as I see my dad means business and I start to haul ass as fast as my little legs can take me. Soon I've passed everyone in the class...including Marc Cohen who is the fastest boy in school.
My dad is out in the middle of the field jumping up and down and yelling at me to "KEEP GOING! DON'T LOOK BACK! MOVE YOUR ARMS!" and I listen to every single word he yells until I hear Mr Schwartz blow the whistle as I cross the finish line. I collapse into a heap and watch all my friends sloooooowly start to cross the finish line as well. No one was there lighting a fire under THEIR asses...just mine.
Once everyone is finished, I see my father talking to Mr Schwartz and comparing their stopwatches...and then he looks at me, smiles and begins to walk home. As I'm laying on the floor near unconsciousness, I watch my father walk away and I think my father is certifiably nuts.
The rest of the day, the kids in school are talking about how there's a new "fastest kid" in school...faster than Marc Cohen or Kevil Coval...and it's a girl. She lives up to her name...Speedy Gonzalez.
I came home from school that day and found my father sitting at the kitchen table with a grin from ear to ear across his face. On the table was his stopwatch.
That is the first time I can remember seeing pride in my father's eyes when he looked at me. I remember it clear as day. I can see the lighting in our kitchen exactly the way it was and I can smell the dinner that was cooking. Even though I thought my dad was completely nuts, I knew in that small moment, I made him incredibly proud.
I told Jackson this story today when we talked about him having to run the mile. His reaction?
"Thank God YOU'RE not like that!"
Sad...I kinda wish I was.
Maybe I'll dust off his old stopwatch and push him out to the field when Jackson does his mile run just to recreate that smile again
