Closing the book

The day we found out about Daddy's cancer, I was working. Like normal, I bustling about, head down, plowing through. I can't remember the exact chain of events, but I'm pretty sure I was rude to Mama during at least one phone call that day.  I know Mama called and told me the doctors had found a spot on Daddy's lung and 3 on his brain. In hope/fear I assumed that they were fatty masses or something along those lines. I definitely didn't let the 'c' word enter into my mind.

Later in the day, on the phone with Mama again, I asked "they're just masses, right?" To which she replied "No David."

I quickly made some excuse to get off the phone. I stepped out of my office, across the hall, and locked myself in the bathroom. I went as far away from the door as possible, and completely broke down. Right there at work. Which to me, previously, would have been mortifying.

I gathered myself, made sure no one could tell what I'd been doing, and went back to work, as nothing had happened. It's what he would have wanted.

                                                                                                                                                                   

And I think that's the last story about Daddy's battle with cancer for awhile.

Sure there are many more things I could talk about. Like the first day I saw him after the diagnosis and we didn't talk about his cancer. About the last words we passed. The dream I had about him after his mind started going.  My feeling that he waited for us to get moved in and mostly unpacked before he let go of this mortal coil.

But for now, I'm done. I've said enough. I've had closure and made my peace. In fact, I had done so before I started the blog. I spent several nights writing things down, just so that I could get them out of my head and heart.

He'll come up again, I'm sure. This blog is mostly about my life experiences and opinions and our parents inform those to large degree. I hope that the sharing of my experience has helped some of you. And really, anyone who wants to talk/email/text, etc about dealing with loss, I'm open for it.

Where do we go from here?

Note: This was original written before I decided to start this blog. I am presenting it in the original form, so the timing is a little off. But its best unchanged. Thanks
                                                                                                                                                                        


What would Daddy want from me now that he's gone? Odd question? Sure it is. Now a full eight months and two days he's been gone and this is the first time it has crossed my mind. Maybe it's the question that helps me move on. And I think that's what Daddy would want. For me to move on. He certainly would not want me to just quit on his account. In his way, he was always trying to move me forward, to make me better.

I can imagine Daddy, knowing that Jessica and I are expecting our little girl, almost unable to contain himself. Point of fact, he probably is bragging all over heaven that his baby boy is about to be a daddy. I imagine over there there he is different, but no so different. Having shucked off the conceits of this world, having no longer the feeling that he should be overly reserved with his emotions.

But back to the question.

He would want me to keep plugging along, doing the best I can; learning, growing. Becoming more of the man that he had a hand in raising.

Daddy never said he was proud of me. Not to me at least. But there came a point in which somehow, I knew.

After he became too sick to take care of things, I took care of things. Mama and Daddy's washing me stopped working.  Mama tried to check it out but couldn't physically move things about. Daddy told her to call me because "David's pretty good at figuring things out."

That said more to be than one thousand "I love you"s or "I'm proud of you son"s ever could have. Daddy came from the old line where those things weren't said between fathers and sons.

I think that if God allowed Daddy a few minutes just to give me some advice, he would say this:

"Keep going. Keep moving. Keep working. You know what you need to do. You've always been pretty good at figuring things out."

Epic Fail

Failure: noun, act or instance of proving unsuccessful; lack of success
                     person or thing that proves unsuccessful

Well there's the dictionary definition for you. Glad that's out of the way.

How do you define failure? Are you a failure? "Are you worthless?" to quote one Brian Eldridge. Who gets to determine success and failure?

So: third in the class, scored in the top five percent on the ACT, voted most likely to succeed, full ride to Troy State University.

College Dropout.

Failure.

Or at least, so I thought for several years.

I'm a bit of a perfectionist (though if you looked at my desk, either at work or at home, you might think otherwise). So much so that I've become self conscious writing this blog, an endeavor I only started out of a desire to write, not necessarily to garner attention. Growing up I didn't think I mattered unless I was perfect, unless I was at the top. When they announced the honor court, and I saw that I was third, I didn't call my parents. Didn't even mention for a few weeks. Because I wasn't first. And that wasn't good enough.

I can't really say what happened in college. I truly don't know. No drugs, no booze, no wild (or any other kind) women, no parties. Somewhere along the way, everything fell apart mentally. Depression? Maybe, not really sure, especially since I didn't believe in depression. But did anyone know? Nope, because I couldn't let the facade drop. Not until it was too late and too obvious and I was quitting school.

It was mortifying to me. Going from being someone who so much expectation was upon, who had so much potential, to, in my mind, nothing. I tried to avoid most people I had grown up with, mostly because I was afraid of 'hey did ya hear about David Hall? Flipped out, dropped out of college, and now he stocks shelves at a retail store"

But I'm not a failure.

Do any of you know what my dream was growing up? It wasn't being a brain surgeon or a lawyer or an astrophysicist or a teacher or a football coach.

My dream was no bigger than this: to have a family to love and to be able to take care of that family.

One of the great problems in this nation is that we define ourselves by our careers. We are our occupations. Fireman. Policeman. Teacher. Politician. Thief. (oops repeated myself).

Success or failure is defined by how far we can advance in our chosen profession, how adeptly we can scale the corporate ladder.

Shouldn't success be determined by how good I can be as a human being? How I treat my fellow man? How I love my family, friends, and even those who are outside of my circle?

Or this: we should be defined as who God says we are to Him.

It took me far too long to find this secret to success. And I don't think I would have if I had not "failed" in the traditional sense.

So I didn't graduate college. So I worked my way up in a retail establishment. So I left said establishment to work for a uniform company (and its amazing how much I have to explain what that is.) And now I manage about 40 people. All these things mean little. Sure, it pays the bills and puts food on our table. This is neither success or failure; it is a means to an end. My success is that my wife knows I love her. That my friends know I'd bend over backwards for them. That my baby girl will know that her daddy loves her. And that God values me enough to send his only begotten Son to this earth. That His son would live a spotless life and die a cruel death for my sins.

Again, I'm not a failure.

And I'll bet that neither are you.