Facing Adversity with Dignity--The Angels God Sends Us

A few months before my Dad died—almost 23 years ago—he came to Chicago to meet me.  I had scheduled appointments with a geriatric team at the University of Illinois-Chicago to guide us as my father’s neurological health deteriorated and he continued to fail.  As I watched my Dad come off the train on a late September afternoon I was struck by how shabby he looked. He was wearing khaki pants, and I immediately noticed the stains. His shoes were scuffed and had not been polished, maybe, ever, which was off-putting because my father and my grandfather were devotees of the idea that a man never wears worn, or unpolished, shoes as the first thing anyone notices about him is his shoes. His sweater was too tight, and his shirt had not been washed for some time. I was happy to see him, but the sight of him immediately made me sad and, at times, the thought of it still makes me sad. At that moment, I knew that he and I were reaching the end of our road together. Sadness aside, that few days I spent with him had a profound impact on me. I hope that it taught me grace. I know that it taught me that life, and all that comes with it, is fleeting. It taught me how to try to accept the bad things that happen to us and to do so with dignity and courage. Most importantly, I learned that, sometimes, we all get the chance to meet with angels.

 I have told the story of my father many times. He was an exceptional man. A man who overcame circumstances from which most would turn back. My father lost his eyesight at age 27 when he had lacked a college education, but had a wife and two small sons, no money, and few options. He and my mother persevered. They, and we, thrived. He and my mother raised a family, and they built a small law practice. We lived our version of the American Dream. And then, he got sick.

 I will never forget the call. I was a rising college sophomore working in Champaign, IL, earning tuition and housing money for the upcoming year. The voice on the other end of the phone was my father’s best friend. My Dad was found on the floor of his office convulsing from a grand mal seizure. He had been rushed to the hospital. This all came unexpectedly. At first, we were told it might be epilepsy. Then we were told he had a brain tumor. That diagnosis was retracted, and we were told he had an aneurysm. What followed were years of misdiagnoses after misdiagnoses, seizure after seizure, and a panoply of medicines, such as Dilantin, Tegretol, Depakote, Klonopin, and the like. That dynamic became commonplace for my parents.

 My father’s illness started him a downward spiral from which my he, and my mother, never recovered. The ensuing 20 years were a devastatingly slow slide (Hawaiians call it "Pahoehoe" when referring to slow-moving lava that destroys everything in its path) that ruined them emotionally, professionally, and financially. This was not to say that every day of those 20 years was awful, for it was not. My Dad and Mom tried, as best they could, to adapt to their new normal. My father continued to practice law, but not well as we later found out for the combination of repeated seizures, misdiagnoses and overmedication weakened his memory and his intellect to the point where he made repeated mistakes that, ultimately, ended up costing him his law license and livelihood. My mother, God love her, tried her best to clean up the mess, but she was a poor substitute for him. We, their children, were shielded from this until it became too big for my folks to hide, and until it was too late to do anything constructive to fix the problems they had created.

 My parents lost everything. My father, eventually, surrendered his law license as the complaints against him began to pile up: missed deadlines, forgotten court dates, money missing from trust accounts, allegations of malpractice. That loss was precipitated by a deep decline in business and clients. Small towns have few secrets, and there is nowhere to hide. His friends and clients loved him and my mother, and they felt deeply sorry for what was happening to them, but (and who could blame them) they could no longer trust him with their homes, businesses, or estates. Unbeknownst to us--their children--they were bankrupt. They lost their home; they lost their office building (and were taken advantage of by local real estate investors who knew that Walgreens wanted the corner on which that building sat); and everything else they may have accumulated. Ultimately, they were forced to live in a small apartment they could afford on social security and disability payments. It was an ignominious end for a very proud couple. As a young lawyer, I did what I could to help, but all I really could do was try to ameliorate the damage, and I wasn’t all that successful in doing so.

 As I grew, and as my family got bigger and as my career started to take off, I had a very difficult time coping with what had happened to my parents. I avoided conversations with them. I was very angry at my mother, who had covered up for my Dad and had taken financial advantage of me, my brother, my sister, and my grandparents. I understand it now as she was desperate, but I did not understand it as a young man. I punished them with my silence and withdrawal. My siblings were much more loyal, and I’ll never be able to repay the kindness they showed my folks. My grandparents—especially my grandfather—were heartbroken.  My heart hardened for a long time, and that is something I live with.

When I saw my Dad the day before we went to UIC, my heart ached for him. We spent the next few days together. That was the last really good memory I have of him. We went to Brooks Brothers and I bought him a few new pieces of clothing. He remarked how good he felt in his new slacks and shirt. I also bought him a new pair of penny loafers—he loved loafers.  He thanked me profusely.  We ate at The Berghoff, his favorite restaurant in Chicago. He and my grandfather would go to Chicago every year to buy shoes and they always ate at The Berghoff. I still remember that he ordered a steak. He loved steak.  We slept in the same hotel room so that I could take care of him.

At this point, my father’s life was a mess, but he never complained. He did not have much to say—frankly, because he had a hard time putting together his thoughts—but you could tell that he never felt sorry for himself. I watched my pop become almost helpless through no fault of his own. But I watched him go through all of it with a sense of calm and decency. Maybe he did not really understand, any longer, what was happening to him, or maybe he did and simply had capitulated, I will never really know. But he did so with a smile on his face. He was kind and gracious to the salesman at Brooks Brothers. He was kind and gracious to the waitress at The Berghoff. He was kind and gracious to the doctors and staff at UIC. He was the man I had always known; the man who accepted his blindness, his success, his failure, and his condition with dignity--that was how he lived his entire life.

The epilogue to all of this is that my dad was diagnosed with a meningioma—a slow-growing, benign brain tumor—which likely had been on the lining of his brain for decades. The physicians at UIC made it clear that if he had been correctly diagnosed when his seizures first began, his life likely would have taken a different course, which, at that point, was of no moment. We opted to irradiate the tumor with the hope that we could arrest its growth and maybe shrink it. Unfortunately, the opposite happened. The tumor became “angry,”  grew rapidly, and, ultimately, killed him.

Reflecting back, I learned much in those few days 23 years ago. I hope I learned how to be just a little more gracious.  I was very sad for my mother and father. Frankly, I was sad for all of us, but I gained a perspective on how one manages (or tries to manage) the bad things that happen. You must have patience, and you must have hope. But if and when the light of hope dims, you try to face that hopelessness with dignity. I also learned how fleeting life is. Your skills, your health, your money, and your security can be taken away very quickly. Do not take your world, life, family, or God-given talents for granted, for they can be gone in a heartbeat. The greatest thing I learned is that God puts angels on this earth, and if you are lucky enough, you get to spend time with them. Sometimes those angels are an overweight blind man with fat fingers, who eats like a Viking, loves University of Illinois football, and is not great at saying “I love you.” But that angel never shrinks when things get tough, and he never goes anywhere, no matter how much he might like to flee.  He never blames anyone or anything for his lot in life.  He carries himself with a quiet nobility.  And when he leaves you, he never really leaves you.

I do not wish my father’s plight on anyone, but I wish those I love could have had the chance to meet and spend time with him, or someone like him. I really do.