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James L. Holly, M.D. |
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James L. Holly,M.D. |
June 19, 2005 |
Your Life Your Health - The Examiner |
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It has been eight years since I wrote A Man of Choices for Father's Day, but it has been only twelve months since we almost lost you. As I relive those frightful days and as I reread the By-Your-Beside series from those two weeks in the hospital, I am filled with gratitude for your life and for your survival.
Often, as we summarize our lives, we organize our thoughts around the homes where the memories are stored. Some of my memories of you are so faint, I can hardly call them mine; perhaps they are only stories which are now recalled as experience, adopted over the years as children born of another's life but now a valued part of my own. There are only six homes to which my memories of you are attached. Each one defines who you were and who you were becoming. Undoubtedly, my greatest asset is that there are no ghosts or skeletons in the closets of those homes which haunt me, only troves of treasure chests which can periodically be opened and enjoyed.
My memory and experience of your life are like a collage, pieced together on the canvass of my mind. Like you, the collage is not perfect for it has many seams where the pieces were fitted together; yet, when looked upon at a distance, the creases and seams are not seen, or at least not noticed. In the pieces which are glued together, our eye sees beauty and completeness. So your life is, imperfect and incomplete, with pieces pasted together by memory, but a thing of beauty, joy and delight to all who know and love you.
Now, as I enjoy each moment with you, receiving each as a special gift, undeserved and unexpected, but gratefully and even greedily received, I am struck by the simplicity of your needs. I see in you the living out of Shel Silverstein's provocative little book, The Giving Tree. While your life does not reflect his entire story, in the end, your life, like all of our lives, does. As I enjoy your company, your smile, your humor, your thoughts, your presence, I take note of how simple your needs are - a safe and warm abode, a soft chair, an adequate meal, your wife, your children, your grandchildren and your great grandchildren. These are the elements of success in your life. Success, which at one time was represented by a complex equation, is now a simple computation which is elegant in its simplicity.
As I watch you sitting quietly, falling asleep from time to time, but readily awakening to the voices and company of those you love; as I see you sitting, rising with difficulty, but rising nonetheless to add the spice of your presence to the life of those who have come to visit, I am arrested by your protectiveness of mother and of others. Your life, spent in service to others, now even with the presence of frustrating and unacceptable limitations, finds you still seeking simple ways to meet the needs of others. Men accept the loss of personal autonomy reluctantly and so you have as well, yet through it all you have been gracious and kind.
As I reminisce over our lives, I am taken by the things you did when you were a man half my age and younger. As I approach my 62nd years, I realize that you were a man 1/3rd my age when you began your family. You were a man 2/3rd my age when your children began their families. When I think back over your life, I appreciate the stability, the steadfastness and the balance of a life well-spent. I recall the lives you have touched and changed. I remember those, many who are gone now, who owed you a debt of love for your beneficence toward them and their family. Some men have wanted to President of the United States or a jet pilot. I have always wanted to be you.
I am haunted by the words of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, who at the moment of Abraham Lincoln's death said, "Now he belongs to the ages." As I remember your near death last summer and as I know that only foreshadows a reality to come, I revert to the child who cannot imagine life without his father and his mother. Greedily, as mentioned before, I cling to every moment with you, hoping and grateful that this is not the day in which I will for the first time face life without you. While you, like all men, will become
"a man for the ages," my prayer is, "Not yet!"
It is a worthwhile lesson for all of us to discover the lesson of aging: life becomes simpler. As I think of you, Daddy, and as I think of Mother, I play your voices over and over in my mind. I store those memory tapes in a safe place where they can never not be found. I love your voices, your words, your thoughts. I love your smile, your smell, your spontaneous humor. I love riding with you down the banks of Cane River Lake seeing things we have seen hundreds of times before but enjoying them as if they were fresh and new experiences because we are doing them together.
I love to give you things but other than your Godiva Chocolate, there is nothing you need or want. That truly is the definition of a man of distinction and of success, needing and wanting nothing but the presence of your family. As both of our lives march to their inevitable conclusion, I am grateful for a father who taught me to love God, to love my family, to live honorably, to be a man of my word and to be thankful for all that I have been given. And, I am particularly grateful for a Mother and a Father who taught those lessons in deed as well as in word.
Eight years after June, 1997, I reread the conclusion of A Man of Choices and find it a fitting conclusion to this Father's Day Tribute:
"And, some day, when this reminiscence of my father, will have become his memorial, I pray that my father's character, courage, commitment and choices will be that of my son, my son-in-law, and of my grandson (and now of my granddaughters).
On this father's day, I remember my father, who is still with me. I remember my wife's father, Wirt Everett Bellue, Sr., who is not. And, I thank God that we both had fathers who were men of choices."
It is my hope, Daddy, that this gift of my heart will bless you and Mother on this Father's Day. God bless you both. I love you.
Your Son
James (Larry) Holly, MD
June 19, 2005
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