Thanking My Dad

It's been on my mind seems like forever. It felt like you should know, dad, one way or another. I had taken it for granted all those years, but I'm not taking it for granted now. It didn't go how I had planned, but I had said it and you knew, you know how I feel.

"Dad, I might turn into a big puddle goo and I might start crying but I have to say this."
"What's that sweetheart?"
"You might not remember this, but I was nine, mom was up in Iowa and we were at home waiting on word about uncle T's condition. We got a call, you answered it and found out that he died. You got off the phone, you told me and I dissolved into a puddle of tears. You swooped me up in your arms, sat me on your lap and let me cry. Thank You."

I mean it. It was the perfect response to what I was going through. No words, no comforting cliches. Just me and your shoulder to cry on. It was exactly what I needed. It might not have been what you needed. You were there for mom and me through everything we went through. You were our comfort, our rock, our support, and in most instances you did so forsaking your own grief, your own need for comfort. They were just as important to you as they were to mom. They were your brothers as they were her brothers, but you were rarely able to attend a funeral. Those were tough heartbreaking times. The thing is, I've always thought about those times in terms of mom's heart break, my heart break, grandma's heart break. But your heart break was just as palpable, but you kept it at bay for me and mom.

I remember that 6:00 am phone call I received when grandma died, and how Chris said nothing. He just held me and let me cry. The perfect response to what I needed. I also think on the fact that you were all alone. My mom and I had each other at grandma's funeral, but you were alone, suffering silently.

After I told you this, you said:

"Sometimes we get it right. Sometimes we get it right. Now stop it. You're making me cry and I'm driving." I think you called me a little shit-ass (you've really got to come up with a better term of endearment) and then we said goodbye. I'd say you got it right more than a few times. I love you, you old BAI (Blooming-Ass Idiot, guess I've got to come up with a better term of endearment, too. Old habits die hard.) and thanks again.