Uncle Dave and Daddy-O

Daddy-love is that deep feeling that makes you want to call your father “Daddy”, even when you’re age 62.

Having Daddy-love doesn’t mean I didn’t see my dad’s biases and insensitivities. I saw them. It doesn’t mean I didn’t feel and witness how he could hurt people. I felt and witnessed the pain. I saw these faults and more, and… I saw traits unusually brilliant.

My dad could get to know a stranger deeply within a few minutes, and give them a pearl of wisdom that changed their life forever. He could tolerate me confronting him, and would talk through to the end of an issue in one sitting - at least, up until his 80th birthday.

On my dad’s 80th birthday, I confronted him about how receiving blow jobs from “other” women is cheating on your partner. Some memory-in-the-energetic-field remembers how our conversation got there; this current memory, however, does not recall how we got to blowjobs. Through the years, the conversations my dad and I had were all over the board, diving into subject matter most people, let alone fathers and daughters, avoid. We didn’t encounter off-the-map topics.

At one point that day my dad said: “Do we have to do this, Honey? Today’s my birthday, and I’m 80”. It was his way of saying I’m done. And that was that. We never had a good confrontational conversation again. I watched his biases hit people in the face and knock them down, and no one could tell him off or invite him into thinking differently anymore. He was just a sweet, old, prejudiced man.

Daddy-O (the term some of my friends use to talk about my dad) is gone. He left his body on May 12th this year. When my dad died, I called my Uncle Dave.

Daddy-O had called his brother every night. They had travelled together until they couldn’t - to fish on Cape Cod, hang at their time share in Florida, and visit their brother (Uncle Richard) in Thailand. They were like an old, married couple. After Uncle Dave’s health started to dip and dive, and phone calls were all the two could manage, they checked in nightly about health, baseball, and the stock market. Dad was a Red Sox fan. Uncle Dave rooted for the Philly’s. They both played trumpet. Dad lived like a stud. Uncle Dave was a family man.

I asked Uncle Dave if I could call him every night. “Why the hell not” he said. I set a timer on my phone and called at 8 pm every night. Some nights we talked about how the Phillies were doing. Once he said: “I’m very sad” and I thought he was going to talk about how much he missed his brother (my dad). I asked why he was sad and he said: “the Phillies lost.” I could hear him chuckle, even if it was so subtle it was not audible.

Some nights we talked about music. Uncle Dave had studied music and had been a horn man before settling down to marriage and raising children. Once, we talked about Maynard Ferguson’s version of Macarthur Park (our shared favorite MF tune). I sang a bit of it and Uncle Dave got quite lively. My dad would not have reacted so well. My dad would have told me I sounded bad. Uncle Dave’s reaction was pure joy and I reveled in it.

One night I said: “I imagine you miss talking with your brother. I know our conversations are nothing like what you two had, and I’m sorry about that.” I asked him if our calls were good for him. He responded slowly, thoughtfully. “All I can say is…” he said, pausing “I’m deeply grateful.” My Uncle Dave was gentle. He touched my heart in ways that no one else could, not even my dad.

And then, mid-August, Uncle Dave died.

I realized I’d been holding onto my dad through my Uncle Dave. For a few days, I was sick to my stomach like I had been when Dad died. I think we both were holding onto Dad. Now Uncle Dave would be reunited with his brother and I had to let them both go.

I know it may not make sense to cry over two men who died in their 90’s, who had full lives, weren’t physically well anymore and weren’t getting better. Over these past few years, Dad and Uncle Dave had lost the lifestyles they had enjoyed (and enjoyed with great gusto). Because his body was breaking down, Dad had said: “I feel like I’m in prison” and he would also answer the question how are you with: “I woke up today. That’s good.” The man loved life.

Most people might say my dad and Uncle Dave “are better off.” In physical terms, at this point, realistically, I suppose that’s true. Even so, I’m crying. No matter the reality, I miss them.

Grief has no logic. Grief just makes us miss the people we have loved and miss the people who have loved us. So, I’ll take this opportunity now to say: Thank you, Daddy and Uncle Dave, for the love you shared with me. I felt it. I will always appreciate it. You were and still are significant to me.

May you brothers enjoy each other’s company once again, play your horns loudly, catch BIG fish, enjoy family and friends who had gone before you, and… may you feel loved.