All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(3)

We no longer pat your head, but wonder what else might be inside of them. I had no idea about this part, the part where you turn not only into adults, but big deals in your own right. We find it deeply exciting and can’t wait to see the splendors and achievements still to come.

There is struggle now and you know what? There will always be struggle. As soon as you figure out the job, or the case, or the story, there will be another. The reward for achievement is a hunger for more, a blessing that lives inside a curse.

So why struggle? Why not the easier, softer way? Part of it comes from fear. Maybe we aren’t all that. Maybe everyone who doubted us was right. But it goes beyond that.

We are workers, we are earners, we are strivers.

But still. We are not greedy people, we don’t care for money except when we don’t have any and we don’t keep score by looking at or comparing ourselves with others.

Here’s what I would say about rising above, being more, pushing for excellence. It is the way that life was meant to be lived. The joy of accomplishment, of making or doing something we are proud of, is something that endures in the end. I care less and less that others think I am a big deal and care more and more about what I think. Is what I did worthy of what I have been given? Am I getting in the boat and rowing, along with others, to the far shore of excellence?

It is a mystery why that matters to me, why it matters to Jill, why it matters so much to you both. But it is our way, it is how we roll and it’s okay to own and revel in it.

But it is also deeply important that you come to rest on what you have accomplished and look behind you to see how far you have come. There is quiet, real happiness in that and it’s the only way we find the strength and hope for the next climb. We are with you on every step, rooting you on and shaking the pompoms when things go your way.

We are so profoundly proud of you both.

Happy birthday to you, Noodles, and to you, Beefaroni. Who would have guessed it would turn out this way?





Dad





2


    Rain Check





In January 2015, I got an email from my stepmom, Jill. The subject line read “Helping dad tomorrow morning.” She told me that my dad was getting his pancreas “looked at” the next day around 7 A.M. at the hospital, and that she wanted me there as she had a pressing meeting at her office and couldn’t stay to be the point person. I said yes immediately but felt uncomfortable. My dad had battled health issues for twenty years. He didn’t like to involve his kids or cause them to worry unless it was absolutely necessary.

I got to the hospital and saw him standing outside smoking one of his Camel Lights, a lifelong habit. He seemed distracted. We went inside and sat in a cramped hospital waiting room while Jill stood at reception, filling out the paperwork and handing over the necessary ID and insurance cards. He told me he had an assignment for me while he was under. He had his Monday New York Times column already fleshed out; it was about the British television show Black Mirror.

“Please look this over and have thoughts for me when I come out,” he instructed.

I nodded and whispered, “Good luck,” and took a seat in the waiting room chairs. His giant backpack rested in the chair next to me, and I ran my hands up and down the mesh, trying to ground myself. Jill waved to me as she quickly exited and headed off to work. I was left alone with my thoughts—something I hated, especially in that moment.

I sat in limbo, surrounded by whitewashed walls covered in shitty generic artwork. I tried to read over his column, but my eyes couldn’t focus, let alone my brain. It was after the holidays and my thank-you cards had not gone out. I’d bought some premade ones on Amazon that I had to fold to make usable—good manners, least labor intensive. The only task I could manage was to fold the blank cards in between touching his backpack, hoping it would provide me with some kind of comfort.

An hour later, as he lay in the recovery room, he sent me an email with the subject line “All good. Are you soon.”

The “good” made me smile; the typo in the subject line made me laugh. I think he meant to say “See you soon.” Perhaps “Are you coming soon?”

A half hour later, he smiled weakly as he walked over to retrieve me and his backpack.

“So what happened?” I asked.

“They thought there was a shadow on my pancreas, but it turned out to be nothing. So, lucky us. What did you think of the article?”

“I…I…thought it was great,” I half-whispered. “I mean, I haven’t seen the show.”

He shook his head at me, disappointed that I hadn’t been able to muster more of a response.

We walked over to a bagel store on Second Avenue. It was an old-fashioned joint with the menu spelled out in black type on a backlit yellow board. I nervously started to chatter on about nothing in particular, unable to withstand the silence.

We ate bagels with scallion cream cheese on plastic lunch trays. I asked him about work. “We already talked about that,” he reminded me.

I walked him to his car, which was parked in an underground lot nearby. He mentioned having advance screeners of an upcoming HBO show in an attempt to woo me back to the family home in New Jersey for some quality time. I shook my head and told him I would have to take a rain check. I had therapy and work and didn’t want to make the trek back into the city later that day. I gave him a kiss goodbye and watched as he pulled out and headed home.