My dad changed a digit in his age today. He’s a respectable, respected, hilarious, intelligent, curious, loving, creative, and charming gentleman of both the East Coast and the West Coast, and I’m immensely grateful that he was born.
Dad, or Pops, as I’m wont to call him, is spending his birthday convalescing from a surgery he had on Friday. Until I received word that he was fine, I was in a state of internal frenzy. What if it doesn’t go according to plan? I kept asking myself. What if the hospital is attacked by a hoard of wild boars, forcing an evacuation mid-procedure? Most horrific yet: What if they’re playing contemporary pop music in the recovery area and he thinks he’s died and gone to hell? All these questions made concentrating on physio a bit of a challenge. Thanks, Pops.
It was when the good-news text arrived from my mom that I realized just how firmly my worst-case-scenario thinking had latched on to one of the worst cases I can possibly imagine: life without my pops. He’s such a huge piece of who I am, and his mere presence in the world makes it a better place to be.
I wish you were able to celebrate in a little more style this year, Dad, but I trust that televised golf and responsible pain management will brighten your day. You better rest up and treat yourself well because it won’t be long before we’ll belatedly mark your birthday with a vanilla slice, an episode of Antiques Roadshow, and a game—or five—of Boggle. I might even let you win.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 