Lessons from My Father: Growing Up with an Older Dad

I had an older dad. My dad was sixty-one when I was born. He was born in the 1920s, and his father, my grandfather, was born in 1895.

He died on October 13, 2014.

My dad witnessed more in his lifetime than most people could even think to imagine—from the Great Depression and World War II to the iPhone and Apple iWatch, he was here for that and everything in between.

I was fortunate enough to have history taught to me by a man who lived it.

As inspirational as he was, having an older father was also terrifying. As a kid, you don’t think about age or time. But I’ll never forget the moment I realized my hero wouldn’t be around forever.

I was in eighth grade, performing in the musical, as I was about to go on stage a classmate said, “Wow, so your dad’s going to die soon.”

Cruel, right?

I was almost in tears. Almost. By eight grade I had gotten good at holding them in, at ignoring that feeling that creeps up your throat from the bottom of your gut. The one that feels like it’s going to swallow you whole.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the weight of my classmates words. I just heard something hurtful and I knew it was the last thing I wanted to think about. I was a child and had only experienced loss twice, losing an aunt and an uncle, too young to understand what death really meant.

That moment has haunted me every day since. It was one of those things they call a “defining moment”.

Looking back, I regret not understanding what true loss was. If I had, maybe I would have spent more time with him, absorbing his knowledge and stories. I would have tried harder in school, been less of a terror. I didn’t understand then, but I understand now.

The morning of my father’s death, I had to go to work. I had already missed two weeks and my bosses had already been so understanding. I couldn’t take more time off and put them in a bad place.

That morning, I went to the ICU to visit him before I went in to the office. He was unconscious and intubated—I just wanted him to know I wouldn’t be able to be there all day, that I wasn’t abandoning him.

As I held his hand, tears started pouring out of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks. I begged him to have a plan, I need him to make it out of this.

A nurse came in and tried to wake him by calling his name, “Hugh, Hugh, Huuugh,” but there was no response. As she left, she asked me to keep trying.

Feeling vulnerable and desperate, I grabbed his hand again and pleaded for him to squeeze it, to open his eyes, to not give up. I don’t know who I was negotiating with at that point, my dad, God, anyone or anything that could make this awful moment in time stop. That’s when I lost it.

Every fear, every regret, it came bursting through my brain, flooding my mind—I felt paralyzed. I started begging for his forgiveness for every little thing I had done wrong. I was hysterical.

In that moment, I felt his pinky finger move.

Every time he reached his hand out to me, his pinky was always out—just for me. That’s how I held his hand—it was our father-daughter thing, I guess you could say. My hands were so small, they still are, so I always grabbed his pinky. I could feel the hope creeping back in.

I begged God in that moment—I wasn’t ready. I had so much more that I needed to learn from him—I wasn’t ready yet.

I looked up to see his eyelids straining to open. In his blue-grey eyes, I saw a deep sadness mingled with an unmistakable love. They seemed to hold the weight of the world, yet still sparkle with warmth and tenderness, even in his final moments. It was the last time I saw those grey-blue eyes.

He was like King Solomon in a way; he never wanted the money, he wanted the wisdom, the discernment.

A man who truly understood the power of wisdom—that’s a rare type of man. He would always say, “The one thing people can’t take away from you is your mind.”

I stayed another thirty minutes at the hospital, telling him I had to go, but he was already gone. At noon, my sister texted that I needed to get back to the hospital—he was dying. I didn’t leave his side until he took his last breath.

That was the day my favorite person died. That was the day my dad died.

Do I have regrets? I used to; I don’t think I do anymore. I think I just wish I had spent more time listening to my dad instead of speaking. I’d give anything to hear his advice, his stories, and his laughter one more time.

One lesson I came away with from my father’s life and passing is the profound truth about wisdom and the mind.

I wish I had fully grasped his teachings about how our minds and the wisdom we carry within them cannot be taken from us. Now, I understand that what he meant was that, despite the betrayals and disappointments we face from loved ones, family, friends, coworkers or even the community, the one thing that can never be stolen from us is our mind.

Our thoughts, our wisdom, and our inner strength remain ours to cherish and protect, no matter the external challenges we encounter.

Read the original article I wrote on the Terrifying Reality of Growing Up With an Older Dad on Thought Catalog.