Don’t hold on to hope

     Growing up, my father taught me many important lessons that have helped me throughout my whole life. The last lesson that my father ever taught me, and perhaps even the most important, is to give up hope. Now I understand that most people believe the opposite. I also used to believe that hope was something we should hold on to, sheltering it from doubts. But I know now that you and I have both been mistaken.

       My father has always been very important to my brother, my sister and I, and we have always been important to him. His dedication as a father started even before I was born. 

      The story goes that when my Father and Mother were dating, she nervously came to him one afternoon to tell him that she was pregnant. He reacted by taking her in his arms, spinning her around a few times, and setting her back down with a kiss on her forehead. He then told her he would be right back, and left for what my father says was about an hour, but my mother claims must have been closer to five.

My mother was left with a mixture of many emotions. Happiness at his initial excitement, turned into confusion at his sudden departure and then ending with anger that she had received no explanation to his whereabouts. And that is how she stayed, stewing angrily on the couch while watching the door.

      At the sound of his arriving truck, my mother sat up a little straighter, running her hands through her hair. She was ready to deliver the lecture that she had been developing in her head while she waited. After a few minutes had passed without my father opening the door, my mother angrily walked over and opened it herself to find my father walking back from his workshop in the garage. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. My father always said her stance resembled that of peter pan. He rushed right over to her, smiling real big, grabbing her hands in his own and told her, "Come with me, I want to show you something." She faltered a little, caught of guard by his excitement. She had spent so much time perfecting his scolding, and she didn't want all that time spent festering to go to waste. But she let him lead her to the garage, her curiosity growing with every step.

      My father covered my mothers eyes with his hands as they walked through the door, and when he lifted them, she saw everything.

      It was just wood. Lots and lots of wood. Long pieces, short pieces, thin pieces and thick pieces. Stacked all along two of the walls.

"Isn't it great!" He said excitedly to my my mother. His eyes were lit up with excitement.

"Are you going insane?" she said, turning to him, her hands returning to their previous position on her hips "Did you even hear what I told you in there. I'm pregnant!"

My father grabbed her waist and turned my mother back around, till she was facing the wood. Pointing to one pile along the closest wall, he told her "That cherry wood over there is a hard sturdy wood. It has a beautiful grain to it and darkens to a rich reddish brown with age. It's just right for a crib."

     His hands still on her waist, he turned her slightly till she was facing the other wall with more wood stacked against it. "That wood is black walnut" he told her "It's for the bassinet, cause I'm sure you'll insist on the little bugger sleeping right next to you in the bedroom for the first few months. It has a beautiful color to it and doesn't even need to be stained. With some oil and clear finish it will practically glow. It will have solid brass hinges, to easily rock the baby to sleep, and a stop pin, if you want to lock it in place. Those pieces next to it are basswood, to whittle figures for the mobile. I was also thinking i'd make...."

"And then she spun around and kissed me" my father would say, proudly smiling. "Well, it was the only way I could get him to stop talking" my mother would add, giving him a coy look.

     The crib was just as beautiful as he had imagined it. Each one of us slept in the warm embrace of my fathers crib, with a mobile of little wooden tools that he had whittled hanging above us. From that very first day that he heard he was going to be a father he became devoted to us. He not only taught us about patience, hard work, and selflessness but he demonstrated them to us every day in his actions. He taught us all the most important lessons in life and guided us gently through each awkward milestone. He was better than any father in the world and I, nor my sister or brother, would be the people we are today if it wasn't for him. When we married, he took on the same role for each of our spouses. And when we went on to have kids of our own he went from being not only the quintessential father but also the quintessential grandfather.

     We've had regular family dinners for decades. All the grandchildren run straight from their car to my fathers workshop where he leaves a bin of his scrap wood for them to nail together and attempt to make their own creations. My father would work the grill, talk and joke with everyone while we ate, and then chase the grandkids around when dinner was done. It was a routine that nobody tired of.

     Then everything started to change. There was no scrap wood for the kids to play with, because my father no longer stepped foot in his workshop. Instead of working the grill, he sat in his armchair quietly watching game shows. At first he would join us at the table when the food was ready but after a while he started eating on a dinner tray in front of the tv. He no longer chased the kids after dinner. He no longer left his chair at all, when he did it was to say goodnight and head to bed, before we had even left.

     This change didn't happen over night. It was a slow change that took place as he entered into his senior years and encountered a few health problems. Ha had had a mild stroke, due to high blood pressure, and was experiencing some hearing loss and arthritis. It was a sad sight for all of us. It was strange to see my father without the usual light in his eyes and it made us all uneasy. 

     One night we all met up to talk about what should be done and it was decided that we would approach my father after the next family dinner. An intervention of sorts. And so we did. We talked to him about not giving up. About trying different medications. About fighting off the depression. He didn't say much. He told us he appreciated our concern. He said he wasn't aware we had been worrying about him so much, and he was sorry to have caused us any stress. He gave us each a kiss on the forehead before we left. Later that night, we all mentioned how we thought we saw the light going back into his eyes and we all felt a little better.

     When we came came for the next family dinner, I walked to my fathers armchair to greet him, but there was nothing except his impression there. I went to the kitchen to ask my mother about him, worried that he might already be in bed. My mother smiled when I asked her. "He's in his workshop" She said. "He had some wood delivered last week. I don't know what he's working on but he's been in there almost every day."

     My father sat at the table with us that night during dinner. We all left feeling relieved to see that he was doing better. For the next few dinners that we came for, he'd come out of his workshop, wash his hands, and sit at the table for dinner with the whole family.

     One night I got a call from my mother that made my heart drop. After hanging up the phone I grabbed my coat and rushed straight over. I don't even remember the drive there, I was in such a state of shock. The door to his workshop was open. I ran straight in. My mother sat on the floor, staring at her feet. My father sat in a chair in the middle of all his tools. It almost looked like he had fallen asleep while taking a quick break. Except for the mask on his face. A plastic tube led from the mask down to a small tank at his side that was labeled Hydrogen.

     Along the same wall, where the wood for my crib once sat, was a casket. It was a beautiful casket, made out of mahogany. It still smelled like fresh cut wood. Resting inside of it was a note.

I love you.

I'm sorry to disappoint you. I know you thought I was getting better. I saw the way you'd look at me as I left my workshop. With a sappy hopeful look on your faces. And that's where you went wrong, holding on to hope. Hope for what? Ten more years of being an old man on the couch? Hoping for things to be better won't help me sleep, it won't help me be able to hear again, it won't make the arthritis in my hands go away,it won't get rid of my waves of confusion or lower my blood pressure. Sure, it would be great if all those things could happen, I'd like to be able to run around with my grand kids again, but I'd be a dumb ass to hope for it. Hope is good in it's own place, but not stupid hope. Not hope in the improbable. Not when it gets in the way of accepting and moving on. People stay in horrible marriages in the hopes that one day it will get better. People waste years on awful jobs in the hopes that they might get noticed and promoted. And if I had pushed on, in the name of hope, I would have costed all of you years of worry and thousands in medical bills. If I couldn't accept that my life was at an end, I wouldn't have been able to plan for it.

So here's my parting wisdom. Don't hold on to hope that things will change. Either take action to change it yourself, and if that can't be done, accept your circumstances and move on.

This isn't sorrowful for me. I've had a good life. I loved every second with you kids. I loved watching you grow up and become parents of your own. You all make me proud. It's because of you and your mother that I'll die a happy man.

Goodbye.

I love you.

I put the note back in it's place and joined my mother on the ground, staring at my own feet.

"He left a note for me also." She said, not breaking eye contact with her feet. "Casket's can cost near to five-thousand dollars. He used the money we saved to pay for a trip through Europe for me. He says he's sorry that due to his health we haven't been able to travel like I'd always wanted."

     My sister came running into the workshop much the same way that I had, a few minutes prior. She stared at our father, read the note, and joined our mother and I on the ground. Five minutes later my brother did the same. There we all sat, on the floor of the workshop, staring at our feet.