A few hours after gluing it, I went back to the bench to retrieve my car, and dad told me the glue had to dry overnight.  I inspected the job for myself.  Looking at my car through the rubber bands and clamps, I determined that it was dry enough and ready to use.  He gently took the toy from my hand, placed it next to his drying tie rack, and said, "If you take the time to do the job right the first time, you won't have to take the time to do it again."

During my teen years we lived in a house that had an alley behind it.  Each evening dad would walk the dog up the alley and often he would come home with some relic that, minutes before, had been someone else's trash.  
One day I saw on the workbench a rusty, beat-up camera tripod he had found.  I didn't pay much attention to it then.  After all, I was in those years where the only thing that really mattered to me was me.  The tripod looked just as irreparable to me as I probably seemed to my dad at the time.

Much later, about a year before Mom's call to me about Dad's lung, they came to my house for a visit.  I was then out of college, a lieutenant myself in the Marine Corps, married and living in base housing in Camp Pendleton, Calif.  Our six-month-old daughter kept me active in photography.

When they came into the house, Dad was carrying a bright red camera tripod.  It looked like new.  "Is this that hopeless piece of junk you found in the alley a few years back?" I asked.

He paused for just a moment, smiled and, I imagine, remembered the impossible teenager of those days.  "Sometimes," he said, "things that look pretty hopeless can turn out surprisingly well.  Have fun!  Send me lots of pictures."

 

Thinking about these times we had together, I looked over at Mikki, my wife, and said, "What would you think about a visit to Mom and Dad's?  I'd really like to be with him."

We drove from San Diego to their place in Los Angeles the next day.  The house had that same familiar feeling of a Saturday afternoon at home -- Mom in the kitchen cooking, and Dad puttering around.  I found him out in the garage, at the workbench engrossed in a frying pan with a broken handle that he was fixing for one of the neighbors.

After a warm greeting, Dad explained that on Monday he had to drive to the Naval Hospital in Long Beach to pick up some of his military health records.  I offered to accompany him, and he took me up on it.

On that expedition, I became more aware than ever of what a gentle man my father was.  Twenty-one years in the Marine Corps can put some rough edges on people; the battlefield can leave scars of the heart as well as the body.  But I'll never forget the kind way he dealt with the military bureaucracy in the exasperating process of obtaining his medical folder.  Even in the midst of his anxiety about what that spot could mean, he showed genuine courtesy to total strangers with phrases like "Thank you so much for your help" and "I appreciate your kindness." 

On Tuesday afternoon, we traveled to the local hospital where Dad would have his exploratory surgery.  The routine of the admission procedure lacked any sense of compassion.  The clerks didn't know my father or share my love and concern for him.  I wanted to shout, "Don't you know who this man is?  Can't you make this a little more pleasant?"

Yet Dad's gentle manner continued through the maze of "have you ever had" and "sign here, please."  We made our way up to his hospital room, and after a while it was time to leave him alone to decipher the TV remote, the nurse-call device and the bed-control buttons.

The tests and exploratory surgery were completed, and we had the verdict Wednesday afternoon.  The doctor told me it was low grade cancer, somewhat advanced in growth, but operable.  Dad's entire right lung had to go, but only if the vital‑capacity tests showed that the left lung could do the job alone.

I was numb.  Cancer?  My Dad?  I explained what the doctor said to Mom.

"I can't tell him!" she cried. "Will you do it?"

I don't know if I can, I thought.  But Dad had never let me
down when I needed him, and now he needed me.

"Sure, Mom, I'll tell him."

That afternoon,....

Continue to Part 4 > > > 

    Copyright c 1991 by Dennis Volz

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 It's a Good Life !

Dennis Volz Insurance Agency
10783 Jamacha Bl, Suite 1, Spring Valley, CA 91978
OFFICE: (619) 670-1000 - FAX: (619) 670-1121 - Cell (619) 339-1339
Email: Dennis@DennisVolzInsurance.com
Websites: Company Site:  DennisVolzInsurance.com

Spring Valley Auto Insurance Quote, Renters Insurance Quote, Homeowners Insurance Quote

My 'Other Blogs'

The San Diego Insurance Blog

Working by Referral

Musings from California

Serving San Diego, El Cajon, Spring Valley, Lakeside, Jamul, Santee, Oceanside, Carlsbad, Encinitas, Del Mar, Pacific Beach, Ocean Beach, La Jolla, North Park, Kennsington, East County, Fallbrook, Los Angeles and San Francisco.