My Dad

My Dad died on September 10, 2024 at the age of 77. Fourteen years ago he was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, likely from exposure to Agent Orange during the Vietnam War. A few years ago he was also diagnosed with dementia. Anyone who has known someone affected by these diseases knows the slow slide away from reality and the terrible disconnect between brain and body that completely changes the person. My Mom was his full-time caregiver for the past several years, a taxing role that consumed her life. It was not the retirement they both hoped for. 

We knew that he didn't have much time left, but it's always a surprise when the end really comes. Saying that it's a huge life adjustment for my Mom, and the rest of us, going from a family unit of 5 to 4, is an understatement.

That's me sitting on my Dad's lap! Can you tell it was the 80s?

My Dad had seven siblings, can you imagine? (Eight kids! Catholics, amirite?) He was always good with babies, raising me and my brother and sister, but also from growing up with abundant babies in the house. My grandparents owned a milk products business, making butter and cheese. This is how I learned that white cheddar and yellow cheddar are actually the same thing: yellow cheddar just has coloring in it. The building still exists and is run by the family as a deli; check out The Cheese Shop if you're ever in Ottawa, Illinois. (And if you are ever there and are not related to me... why?)

Dad and baby Cora

My Dad graduated from the Culinary Institute of America (the other CIA) in a time when buffet art was a thing. Picture animals made out of meat, cheese and fruit fanned out in intricate patterns. Later, knowing he was likely to be drafted, he joined the Army and was sent to Vietnam. After a period of time clearing the jungle, some higher-ups got wind that they had a verified CIA graduate on their hands, and a helicopter landed one day, whisking him away to a much better job as a chef.

Dad and Mary

For the majority of his career, he worked as an Executive Chef at large hotels. I remember Easters and Thanksgivings when I was a kid spent in hotel dining rooms; my Mom would bring us all there when he was working on big holidays. When people hear about his culinary training and career, they always make a comment like, "Wow, you must have eaten well at home!" Well, no; my Mom cooked us most meals. I completely get not wanting to come home and continue to do your job! Sometimes he would make pizza dough or big batches of pasta sauce, but we certainly never got an artistic buffet spread.

Dad and baby Mary

After he retired, he finally had time to put his creativity into action, and took oil painting classes. He probably would have continued to paint had Parkinson's not taken away his hand-eye coordination. I'm so glad that I was the lucky recipient of his artistic gene. My Dad and I went to see the National Symphony Orchestra, and Sarah Brightman singing opera, when the rest of my family deemed classical music too boring (i.e., not a sport). He was a fan of Edith Piaf and history, when he could find time to read.

Dad and his mom, my grandma who died only 5 years ago at the age of 100

I grew up with both my Dad and Mom working in the yard. On the weekends he was often outside mowing the grass or planting flowers, trees, and shrubbery. (I just wanted to say "shrubbery.") He was always interested in my flower growing. One of the last times he visited our house and was able to confidently walk, I showed him around all my gardens, and he recognized most of the flower varieties.

I was there with my Mom when he died, and wow, let me tell you about something that can give you perspective. So here's a reminder that life doesn't always turn out the way we want. Take advantage of your abilities while you have them: make the art, hike the trail, visit that place you've always wanted to see but never could make the plans. And if you have a good relationship with your parents, give them a call.