Experiencing My Father’s Life and Illness

The trajectory of my father’s life has been handicapped by professional failures for as long as I can remember. Indeed, it has been perhaps the only recurring tragedy within our household, the one that sneaks into conversation or, in some cases, requires no words and is thus articulated by a rigid quietness every night as he prepares for the awful nightshift at a local grocery store.

He was a hard-working student at my age. He converted his years at Seton Hall University into an accounting degree—a degree he now harps on as being worthless—because of his parents’ encouragement. They wanted a stable and honest career for their son, and although their intentions cannot be faulted, my father felt that the number based environment stifled his creative tendencies and strong personality. He wanted to be a weatherman. He should have been a weatherman. But he chose accounting instead because it offered the most certain future.

My father spent several years in the accounting field before I was born, but when I was close to five years old and my sister was only two, he made the life-changing decision to shift professional gears and find something fresh and satisfying. His gamble resulted in a seven-year unemployment spell that made my graphic artist mother the sole provider for the family. Because I was so young, my mind recorded this episode in photographic fragments; I remember the stacks of classified ads he collected, the restrained but real frustration of my mother, the TV dinners he prepared when my mother worked late, his continued interest in meteorology, and his insistence that I find the career that absolutely fulfilled me. Forget money or pressure, he repeated along with my mother, be what you want and should be.

Ten years ago my father—at age forty-three—swallowed all professional pride and sought a job that would offer him consistent but modest money while he searched elsewhere for employment. He began working the night shift at a local grocery store and reluctantly fell into the routine of sleeping during the day and stocking shelves all night. A decade has passed since he started his night crew odyssey, but only two things have changed: his store and his health.

It was March 2006 when my father’s appearance reflected the sickness within. He was particularly tall and lean before doctors found a tumor attached to his pancreas, but in the brief three-month period before he arrived in the emergency room, his body withered like a dying oak tree; the severity of his illness was matched only by the spectacle of his size. By the time he was admitted to the intensive care unit he had lost tremendous weight and, most strikingly, his characteristic awareness and humor. He was so ill he

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could not speak for a time. Because I was living on campus that spring I became physically aware of my father’s illness only when I came home the weekend he went to the hospital. His half-open eyes, warily peering out from sunken sockets, still haunt me on occasion.

The recovery process replaced his nightly routine, and after weeks in intensive care receiving counteractive hormone shots and countless tests, he was able to come home in stable health.

My reaction to his cancer and the very real possibility of his death was admittedly selfish. Regrettably, I thought in terms of “me” and “mine.” It was me who was losing a father, a male mentor, and one of my life’s anchors. His near-death experience impressed upon me the absolute finality of death that can only be made real by its proximity in the home. Two years passed and his health was maintained by more shots, a specialized diet, and pure defiance. Bravery was not the banner my family rallied under; instead, we united in the name of tribal (i.e. familial) stubbornness. It seemed the natural Reed response. In spite of these developments he went back to work—this time burdened with the knowledge that life is too short to stock shelves.

This summer his symptoms returned suddenly. His weight dipped again, his eyes receded, and his hollow cheeks became bookends for his gray beard. Unlike the first time, I was home to witness the wheels fall off.

It was the night before he was admitted to the hospital for the second time that I was overwhelmed by his condition. I was no longer thinking in terms of “me” or “mine.” In two years I had matured beyond that early, self-involved response and instead reacted with something more profound. I found myself evaluating my father’s life for him while he struggled with death. It felt proper categorizing his victories in his absence but the process was heartbreaking. I genuinely feared that he would never be aware of the private achievements which were overshadowed at home by professional failure. Without question, his accomplishments and fatherly inspiration outmatched, in my mind, any portfolio or professional exploit.

In life and in spite of the threat of death my father has taught me the most important lessons by example. As I tearfully quantified his life, I began with what he has given me: confidence in my direction, encouragement as a human being, and validation as a man. He has given me every reason not to repeat his mistakes and at the same time taught me what it means to be strong regardless of circumstance. He and my mother raised two strong and self-reliant children, and both parents make me believe I will raise my own with the same success.

Because of the example of the would-have-been weatherman, I understand the necessity of choosing your own path and choosing well. With his encouragement I received my bachelor’s degree in May and am setting out ambitiously to obtain my master’s and PhD in Arabic history.

He is home now and healthy, although his cancer remains. His son is working hard to be his own weatherman.

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