My dad would have been 77 years old today. He was born in the midst of World War II while his father was driving a half-track in Germany. Just six weeks after his first child was born, Grandpa fought in the Battle of the Bulge.
These are facts I think about now that the old man has been gone for a little more than two years. I often think about the questions I didn’t ask before he died, even though we did several interviews in the months after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer right before Christmas in 2018.
I will always remember Dad’s last birthday because it was about a week after the incident that showed us his cancer, which had been in remission for several months, was back. Just a few days before his 74th birthday, he left his house to scout some property for cutting wood. Somewhere along the way, he went into a semi-conscious state, took a right turn onto U.S. Highway 56 and somehow ended up in Gardner, Kansas.
Dad drove nearly an hour east, speeding through stop signs, missing numerous cars and managing not to drive off the road along the way. His trip finally came to an end when he ran a red light and hit another vehicle. I found out about an hour later, when he was admitted to a hospital in the Kansas City area with dangerously low blood sugar.
We visited the old man that night and checked on him the next few days. He was miserable. He hated hospitals with a passion. Despite numerous tests, including a concern that he might have cancer again, there weren’t any answers.
That hospital stay delayed Dad’s birthday celebration. His birthday wasn’t a big deal to him, at least for most of my 43 years up to that point, but it had always been important to us. He did embrace the celebrations we had for him in the last 10 years of his life.
That usually included a big dinner prepared by my sister-in-law. Sometimes, it was deer steak. Other years, it was chicken and noodles. For a few years, it was chuck wagon casserole. The staple of the dinner, of course, was cheesecake. Even though he was a small man, 5-foot-6 and 160 pounds, he could eat his weight in cheesecake.
His last birthday was the same as the others, but I think several of us at the table were concerned. Even as Dad cackled his distinctive laugh while talking to his friend Bob at dinner, I couldn’t stop thinking about his recent episode.
A few days later, my stepson and I drove to Ottawa to check in on the old man and my nephew at what turned out to be his last craft show. Dad was tired. He always looked tired in the last two years of his life. Always.
About six weeks later, I got the worst text of my life: “Doc says I have terminal cancer. Six months to live.” I’m certain he texted it because he couldn’t stand to tell me on the phone or in person. Needless to say, Christmas was extremely difficult that year.
In the years since he passed, his birthday has been different, but it’s still a celebration. In 2019, just three months after he died, I spent the day doing things he loved to do, including going to a casino and eating his favorite dessert. The next year, I stopped by to see my brother and his family.
As we celebrate his birthday for the third time without him, I have only good memories. Memories of family sitting around a dinner table, talking about life, enjoying good company and sharing stories. And, of course, memories of eating a big piece of cheesecake.