Dad's Post-Father's Day Reflections

This is a family blog. As such, even though the posts all carry my byline, it has always been a collaborative endeavor. Mama and I have consulted on most entries, and edited and proofed each other. We strive to speak in one voice.

Today I selfishly write just for me.

I was not with Henry last Father's Day. I had an event at work, so I put Henry and Mama on a plane to New York for what we thought was to be the second phase of Henry's treatment at Sloan Kettering. I joined them the next day.

After working the event, I went home to find Henry's sweet and tender voice wishing me a happy Father's Day.

We saved that message all year. On Father's Day, I listened to it over and over. I played Rock Band on Henry's wii. We visited Henry's bench. I listened to his message again. Anything to feel closer to Henry and feel a little bit like a father again.

Shortly after I went back to work last October, a friend stopped by my office to see how I was doing. As she glanced around the room, taking in the the family photos scattered rather haphazardly on the walls, shelves and windowsills, her gaze landed on two little keepsakes to me from Henry: a computerized "#1 Dad" certificate and a plaque procured from a theme park proudly proclaiming "World's Greatest Dad."

"I just realized," she said, "you're not a dad anymore!"

While the words stung, they were perceptive. Losing Henry is profound in so many ways, and my attention has been on missing him, on the emotional devastation, and working with Mama to nurture his memory and ensure that his short, star-crossed life will be remembered with honor and purpose. But I have not yet reconciled the earth shattering impact on my place in the universe. Such a huge part of my everyday life was focused like a laser on Henry, on being his Dad. There was all the standard breadwinner stuff: worrying about a good home, the right school, and so on. There were the small things, like not being able to stop at the store on the way home without finding something for Henry, whether it was a new cereal, chicken nuggets, or a Pokemon key chain.

And there was being a role model: struggling to be the kind of man that Henry would be proud of and would want to emulate when he grew up. While I never got that right, it was a joy and a privilege to try.

A couple of days ago, we dug out the old home videos which I started archiving onto DVDs. It's a joyous heartbreak to view Henry: days old, so beautiful, so free - and to know his fate.

In one video, he was seven months old when I carried him onto a California beach to show him the ocean for the first time. As I watched the tape of the beaming child cradled in my arms, I was overcome as I realized how much it resembled his last days when, unable to walk, speak, or even hold his head up, I would cradle his fragile body as I carried him from his chair to his bed.

I wept as I watched it. I weep now as I write it.

In the twelve years between those images, Henry taught me much more than I ever taught him. The child is the father of the man, after all.

I will spend the rest of whatever life I have left trying to emulate him.