Note: I wrote this blog, but did not publish it, on Aug. 4, 2019. Dad died the next day, less than 24 hours later.
I went on the last run I’ll go on while my father’s alive today. Unless, of course, he continues to defy the predictions. In truth, I don’t run that much anymore. Since my battle with Epstein-Barr Virus, I’ve focused more on weights than cardio.
During the past few weeks, as we’ve surrounded Dad in his final weeks, I’ve taken a break nearly every day to exercise, driving from Overbrook to the gym on Washburn’s campus. It’s been about stress relief as much as fitness.
But today was different. Dad’s getting closer. He’s virtually comatose at this point, though he will acknowledge an “I love you” with a blink. The breathing is even more shallow than it was yesterday, the pulse fainting further. I didn’t want to be gone for long. Not being here when he dies would be devastating.
Today’s break was a three-and-half mile run along the baked dirt road that runs by my brother’s house and the house my father lived in before he had to move out due to his declining health.
As I ran, I shuffled through my iPhone to listen to music that reminded me of my dad. Each song has a memory of him. I suspect that’s going to be the case for the rest of my life:
ISAO TOMITA’S “CANON OF THE THREE STARS”: Yes, a wedding song. The song my first wife walked down the aisle to in 2002. Moments before she did, my father sensed my nervousness. “Son, are you sure you want to do this?” Dad was always blunt. He was also right. I wasn’t ready, and he knew it. He also knew it wasn’t going to work out. The rest of that conversation: Me: “It’s a little too late now, Dad.” Dad: “Oh hell no it isn’t.”
ALOE BLACC’S “THE MAN”: As I labored through the final few classes of grad school, my wife asked me several times if I wanted to have a party to celebrate. I really didn’t. I was happy for it to be over with. But I did tell her it’d be cool if we could play “The Man” during a minor ceremony. On the day of graduation, as I backed out of the driveway, my wife turned to me, tears in her eyes and said, “I’m so proud of you. You worked so hard.” She turned on her iPhone and started playing “The Man.” What I also remember about that day is hearing my family cheer loudly as I walked across the stage, including my dad. Dad hammered the importance of education into our brains from day one. Without his love, support and motivation, I doubt I get through college, let alone earn a master’s degree.
DARIUS RUCKER’S “WAGON WHEEL”: As his health declined steadily, it looked like my wife and I weren’t going to make the Hootie and the Blowfish concert in St. Louis. When I told Dad I didn’t think we should go due to his health, he said, “You are going to miss Hootie?! Son, life goes on. Go to the concert.” With his blessing, we went, and I had as much fun as I’ve had in years. Dad also enjoyed several Blowfish songs, including “Let Her Cry.”
DJ KHALED’S “ALL I DO IS WIN”: I doubt Dad ever heard this song, but it reminded me of all the times we went to Missouri football and basketball games together. The catchy rap song is a staple of the pregame festivities at both. Dad gave me far more than I could have given him, but I did take him to his first college basketball game in 1997 and first college football game in 2006. Over the years, we shared several wonderful experiences, including the Columbia Classic in 1997, Armageddon at Arrowhead in 2007 and Missouri knocking off No. 1 Oklahoma in 2010. And, of course, this song reminds me of the competitiveness I inherited from my old man, who often said, “Just win, baby.”
PEARL JAM’S “JUST BREATHE”: A few weeks ago as I drove to Topeka along Highway 75, this song came on Sirius XM. I ugly cried for 15 minutes. For starters, this is the song I walked out to at my wedding in 2013, along with my dad (best man) and the groomsmen (my brother and best friend). It was the happiest day of my life, and I got to share it with him. I can’t think of a song more fitting for my dad, a lifelong hermit who mellowed significantly in his final years and ended up with hundreds of friends.
“Yeah, I’m a lucky man to count on both hands the ones I love. Some folks just have one. Yeah, others, they got none …”
Just a few of the songs I listened to on my “last run.” I also thought about the time I spent with my dad walking and running on a dirt road outside of his home in Melvern. When I left the newspaper business in 2010, Dad took me in, rent-free, until I figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. He had only one stipulation: To start exercising and get healthy.
For four months, he walked and ran with me, at age 65. That was nine years ago. Today, I’m 100 pounds lighter and as fit as I’ve ever been. I was a lucky man to have him as my father.