Thank You, Dad, For Everything

My dad, circa 1991, taking my sister fishing

It’s late Friday afternoon. I’m 21. A newly independent college graduate with one last summer of freedom ahead of me before the madness of medical school starts in the fall. I feel invincible. I run a brush through my hair, dab on some hot pink lipstick, and grab my sleek sparkly white Old Navy flip flops. I love these flip flops because they are “dressy” while still being comfortable. They say, I’m laid-back fancy. Exactly the vibe I want.

I’m hanging out at my dad’s house in Seneca, South Carolina. But I feel way too cool (and too busy) for time with parents. I’m also late to meet up with friends. Very late. I start down the long, windy 20 stair hardwood staircase separating my room from the front door with a brisk pace. I leap over two stairs at a time while texting a friend back on my phone: Heading out the door now. Be there in five. A master multi-tasker.

I’m four stairs down, searching for the slightly apologetic “oops” happy teeth face emoji (you know the one) when IT happens. The right sandal slips. Both feet fly up. The phone clatters to the floor. I’m completely airborne. Time stops for a flash.

Then comes the instant roller coaster pit drop stomach sensation. Only I know it won’t end smoothly. I plunge 12 feet headfirst down the remainder of the stiff, unforgiving staircase.

My mind escapes and goes black (for sanity’s sake) during the actual fall. The commotion pierces the quiet calm of the lazy southern afternoon like a bomb explosion.

It's over almost immediately. Red hot lighting bolt pain shoots down my back, radiating into my right knee like overflowing lava. I gasp for air. I’m lying on my back at the bottom of the stairs, afraid to move any further.

As I ever so gingerly attempt movement, I hear racing sock footsteps. I’m still too stunned to open my eyes. I lay there on the hard wooden floor, motionless, like a stunned gazelle. I hesitantly open my eyes, fuzzy vision slowly adjusting to crisp, full color focus. My dad’s wide-eyed face is staring back at me- a look of anxiety and fright mixed with deep concern. He recognizes signs of life, and immediately envelops me in a big, long, tight protective bearhug.

I burst into tears. And in that moment, I’m no longer cool, independent adult Lauren. I’m little girl Lauren. Consoled by my oldest, most familiar protector. The protector who carefully picked me up off the ground at age 3 when I flew off my training wheel bike after plowing into an elderly lady. The protector who bolted after me down the side of a steep ravine when I tumbled over the edge on a mountain bike at age 13. The protector who cautiously intervened to save me from my own stupidity with boyfriends (at many ages). The protector who drove me halfway across the country in an old jeep to start college two days after 9-11… only to be shoed quickly away minutes after our arrival by my hasty urge for independence at age 18.

See the thing was, I wasn’t crying from pain (although it was immense). In that instant, I was crying from relief- relief from the primordial sense of safety, security and unconditional love that always emanated from my dad just when I needed it the most. Relief that even when I inevitably pushed him away, he knew to stay.

There is a myth that adult birds push their baby birds out of the nest to learn how to fly. In reality, it’s actually the young chicks themselves who-much to their potential peril- initiate the first scary launch from the nest. The parent birds usually perch somewhere out of site but close by on the ground, bracing themselves to proactively help with any injuries and scare off any prey.

Sometimes emotions catch you off guard. They spring up. The sudden, unexpected ferocity overwhelms you- unanticipated, unfamiliar feelings for familiar people. I still think about that fall day often. And to this day, it still feels me with intense gratitude and love for my dad.

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On this Father’s Day, my wish for you is that you have (or had) a father or father figure in your life at least half as wonderful as my dad. A father who built you a backyard treehouse, and an indoor dollhouse bed. A father who played t-ball and “monster freeze tag” with you and your friends growing up. A father who followed behind your school bus on the first day to make sure you made it to school safe. A father who took you hunting and fishing, as well as shopping. A father who bought tampons for you when it was too embarrassing to bear as a teen. A father who took you on long nature walks. A father who always made you feel like you were the most important, most special person in the world.

And my ask of you today is this: call your father. Dads are like desert cactuses. They don’t need much. They don’t need a fancy or expensive present. This just want to hear from you. It makes their day. Your success is their success. Your heartache is their heartache. And if your dad made your childhood even half as magical as mine did, call him and tell him. One occasional storm of rain will keep a desert cactus alive and thriving for months and months.

And finally, if you are a dad yourself, please know this: you mean more to your kid(s) than you will ever know. You are their hero. You are the first love they model (and measure) all future loves against. They remember every moment. Especially the difficult ones. Every fall. Every hug. Every hello. Every goodbye. Every long car ride. Every bike ride. And they will think about these dad moments with that same little kid deep love long after they are grown. And long, long after you are gone.

You did good.

-Lauren