Happy Birthday, Dad!

When he was 70, my dad started saying, "I think I'm going to die at 72, just like my dad." I'd roll my eyes and respond, "Dad, you're not going to die at 72. Grandpa smoked, and he wasn't as healthy as you." I figured dad was simply anxious as usual. He spent most of his life worrying. My mom even called him Chicken Little. After he unloaded his worries onto her, she'd say, "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" She'd have a good laugh, and he'd be irritated, but I always thought, "Yep. That's dad. Just a ball of nerves!" And that's probably where I got my nervous nature. In fact, the most commonly-used phrase in my childhood was "I should've done [this]." I'd say it over and over and over to myself. "I should've done [this]. "I should've done [that]." I seriously could've used a regular dose of Xanax or Valium.

In like fashion, dad said, "I'm going to die when I'm 72," over and over and over again. After a while, I didn't pay much attention to it. "Oh, dad," I thought. But then he went to the hospital for a routine ablation and was never the same again. He had a severe stroke. He couldn't speak, swallow, move his hands in a coordinated fashion, or walk. He often didn't––or couldn't––open his eyes. He stayed alive with medicine and a feeding tube.

Almost two grueling years later, he died. He was 74. He had lived longer than his dad, but without a feeding tube, he most certainly wouldn't have. Besides, was he even really living those last two years? Could we call that living?

When I was a high school senior, my English teacher submitted me for the regional writing competition. On the morning of the competition, I woke up late and was in a terrible mood. Lexia and mom tried to hurry me along, and I grudgingly got ready. I don't even know why I was so mad that morning. Whatever the case, I missed the bus headed to the competition. My mom, dad, Lexi, and I pulled up to the high school just as the bus was pulling away. My mom suggested we all drive the hour to Rome, Georgia, where the competition was taking place. I couldn't believe dad and Lexi were both on board with the idea, but almost as soon as the suggestion was made, we were off.

We arrived just in time for me to write my essay. I chose to analyze the characters of The Lord of the Flies. When I finished, I left the auditorium with confidence. An odd thought popped into my head: "I just won that contest." I enjoyed the rest of the day. It was the first free day I'd had in a long time. I had a nice lunch with a friend, got to know a few new people, and generally relaxed. When it was announced that the scores were released, my friend wanted to rush to find out the results. I agreed, but I took my time to look at the board. "I know I won, so I don't need to see the results." And that's exactly what happened. I won.

I've often thought about that day. How did I know I would win? More importantly, why did it matter? Likewise, how did my dad know he was going to die at 72, and more importantly, why did it matter?

I think it mattered because it allowed him to relax to some degree. Sure, he worried about a few things he always worried about (He really needed some Xanax or Valium.), but I think he was able to wrap some things up in life that he wanted to. I think he developed a stronger love for my mom, and I think he learned to enjoy the present. He spent time with baby Banks, let himself take naps, and visited his brothers. He mentally prepared himself for the end of his life.

What a beautiful blessing––to know when your time is going to come. He had a Scrooge moment and could live life a little differently and perhaps more tranquilly.

Thing I'm thankful for: the moments when dad's eyes were open, and we could see how big and blue they were