Happy Birthday, Dad

Today is my father’s birthday. In a couple of months, it will have been two years since he passed away. He would’ve been 63 years old, which is a number I still have a little bit of trouble with when thinking about how much more time he should’ve had to enjoy.

Looking back at what I wrote a year ago, it’s interesting (at least to me) to note what has and hasn’t changed during that period. Time has certainly given me an opportunity to cope and reflect. The disbelief – for the most part – isn’t as strong. The anger that I felt has faded.

But they’re not entirely gone. I see how my mother looks at older couples who are spending that part of their lives together, and I can see how strongly she feels that loss in those moments. I’m sure she feels it more often than she’ll ever let me know, no matter how much I try to help her, but she manages to hide it. Yet I can also see how far she’s come, how healthily she’s recovered from her grief, and that makes me feel better about things.

Sometimes, I think about how I’ve grown apart from my father’s side of the family – especially in recent months – and wonder what he would think of that. Would he be disappointed in me? Would he think I should try harder? Would he be able to help me deal with the anger I feel? Would he understand why I’ve acted the way I have?

I tried to bring up the subject of doing something for Dad’s birthday with my mother, but I could tell it just made her sad, so I dropped it. I’m sure she’ll want to do something in his memory, but I can also understand that most any gesture – no matter how well intentioned – might feel empty.

I also talked with my sister about it last night, and of course, nothing seems big enough or special enough. But as we did last year, we’ll try to do something true to his spirit. He always tried to give whenever he could. So my sister will make a donation to Dad’s church. I should say to “our” church, but it hasn’t felt that way in a long time – even before his death. But that place meant a lot to him, so if we can do something to help in my father’s name, I think he’d be okay with that.

Once again, I’ll be making a donation to WEMU, a radio station my father really loved. Maybe he loved it too much, judging from all the pledge requests we’ve been getting recently. But he did give them a tremendous amount of support because he enjoyed everything their staff and programming offered, so if I can continue that – even in some small way – I think that’d make him happy.

Last year, I had the idea to eat hot dogs for dinner because it was often Dad’s guilty pleasure meal of choice. Even if he had the option to eat anything else, if it was left up to him (and he really had to go out), more often than not, he’d opt for a place he could score a chili dog. But having dinner with my mother at a Coney Island felt a little bit strange, so I don’t know if we’ll do that this year. She won’t come right out and say it, but I can tell she’s thinking, “You know, he liked steak, too. Why don’t we have a steak?” So maybe I’ll have the hot dog for lunch.

Regardless, my father will be on my mind today, and I’ll do what I can to commemorate his birthday. I don’t know if it’ll be enough. It probably never will be. I just hope it feels right.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today is my father’s birthday. He would’ve been 62 years old, and I keep wanting to pick up the phone to wish him a Happy Birthday. I want to take him out for a birthday lunch or dinner.

Emotionally, as you might imagine, I feel like kind of a mess right now. Obviously, there’s the grief and sadness. We miss him terribly, and still can’t believe he’s gone. I try to be there for my mother as best I can, but I know it’s not the same. Most days, I wish I could do more for her.

For me, there’s also anger. I thought that would’ve passed by now, but it hasn’t. My father should’ve had at least another 10 years, if not 20. He and my mother should’ve been able to enjoy retirement and old age together. It just doesn’t feel right. Or fair. He deserved more. He deserved better.

Every year, in the months leading up to his birthday, I’d often make a mental checklist of gift ideas for him. What was a book or CD that he’d find especially interesting? I haven’t been doing that much mental shopping over the past 10 months, but this weekend, I walked around a bookstore and picked out what I might have gotten for him this year. It wasn’t easy, mostly because I haven’t had our usual phone conversations to draw ideas and inspiration from. So I mostly thumbed through the books and music that I thought he’d like, but also reminded me of him. I’m especially glad that no one asked me if I needed any help because I wouldn’t have managed much of an answer.

My sister and I talked about what we should do for Dad’s birthday, our first without him. What would capture his spirit? What would he want to do? And what might help us break up the sadness a bit, and get through the day?

Making a donation in my father’s name seemed like the most important thing to do. He gave a lot of his time and money to causes and institutions he believed in. If I didn’t already know that, the constant deluge of mail and phone calls asking for contributions is a reminder. (And to most of those organizations, I apologize. Maybe it’ll be easier to deal with your requests next time around.)

We wanted to follow his example, so today, we’re making a donation to WEMU, a radio station my father loved and supported for many, many years. He loved news, he loved the arts, and he loved jazz. WEMU celebrates each of those things, and if we can play a small part in keeping that going in my father’s name, it’s the least we can do.

The other thing we’re going to do today might sound strange, but we think it really captures Dad’s spirit. I’m going to a Coney Island for dinner tonight. Because if Dad could have one thing for his birthday, he’d want a hot dog. On many occasions, when we wanted to go out for a meal, we’d ask him what he wanted. Try that new Mexican joint? Feel like pizza? Hey, how about Thai? But if we left it up to him, Dad would chuckle, shrug his shoulders, maybe look down at the floor, and sheepishly say, “You know, I wouldn’t mind going for a hot dog.” And he knew my mother would roll her eyes and protest.

Sure, we’d take him out for better meals on his birthday. Italian food. Mediterranean food. Seafood. Or a thick, juicy London Broil, covered in mushrooms. But he always seemed happier just eating a hot dog. And if it were entirely up to him, that’s probably what he’d have. So that’s what I’m having today. Chili, mustard, onions – all of it. Lay it on me. I don’t know what my sister will do, as the Coney Island hasn’t exactly made its way down south. Surely, she can find a hot dog stand somewhere in Charleston. I’ll try to help her out with Google.

I don’t know if this is enough. Later, we’ll probably think of other things we could’ve done, other donations we could’ve made. But it feels right today.

Happy Birthday, Dad. We miss you and we love you.

Rest in peace, Mr. Jennings

My father’s favorite news anchor was ABC’s Peter Jennings. The man’s evening just wasn’t complete until he heard the news of the day from Peter. (Dad was apparently on a first-name basis with Mr. Jennings.) When I moved back home, Dad’s routine became my routine. We sat next to each other many nights, watching World News Tonight and discussing what was going on in the world. And when I took a break from college, my mother held Jennings up as an example. (“You know, Peter Jennings never graduated from college.”)

Back in April, when Jennings announced he had lung cancer and had to step away from the anchor desk, I knew it bothered my father. He told me as much over the phone. He had become quite sensitive to issues of health and mortality. Knowing I surfed the internet religiously, Dad often asked me if I’d read anything about Jennings’ condition. And I gave him any update I could find, no matter how slight. (“Howard Kurtz says he still goes into the office, Dad.” “Oh yeah? Huh. I wonder when he’ll be back?”) Even when Dad found himself in the hospital six weeks later, he was still tuning in and still wondering where his nightly news buddy was. The last time I saw my dad smile, he was watching World News Tonight as I walked into his hospital room. I took it as a good sign. The man was getting back into his routine.

Dad would’ve been sad to find out about Peter Jennings’ passing yesterday. I’m sad about it, too. Mr. Jennings, wherever you guys are, I hope you’ll have a chance to chat with my dad. He’s a big fan, and I know he’s got a lot of stuff he wants to ask you.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad

For those of you who know me or have been reading this blog for a while, you undoubtedly know that today is a bittersweet day for me. I’ve tried not to let it get to me, but of course it does. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about my father today, and celebrating his memory with my mother as best as I can. (In that spirit, I encourage you to read Hoyt’s touching tribute to his late father at Donutbuzz.)

A month or so ago, I intended to write a blog about keeping score in baseball after the Detroit News ran a feature on it. (Sorry, can’t find the link.) I ended up shelving the idea, probably in favor of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes jokes. However, Billfer over at The Detroit Tiger Weblog wrote the blog that I never had a chance to write before my father passed away, and I’d like to link to it.

Some of my favorite memories of my Dad are going to Tigers games with him. He taught me how to keep score. He instilled my belief that only mustard, not ketchup should go on a ballpark hot dog. He assured me that the crowd wasn’t booing Lou Whitaker, they were chanting “Loooooooou!” (I think he did the same thing with Ruppert Jones. “Ruuuuuup!”) He bought me my first Tigers cap at Tiger Stadium. And he got me John Wockenfuss’s autograph when I was too shy to bring my baseball up to him on Autograph Day.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I miss you. We never got to have that last catch at the Field of Dreams in Iowa, like we’d talked about. But we’ll have it someday.

Dennis Casselberry 1944-2005

I never thought I’d be writing about this. Certainly not here. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to. Or if I could. I guess I’m still not sure. But many friends have been checking in to ask how my father was doing, worrying about what was going on. I am grateful to each of you for that. And so is my father. I wish I had better news to share with you. Many of you already know what’s happened.

My father passed away last Friday.

What caused it? I don’t know. The pulmonary embolism? A stroke? The doctors can’t really say, and my mother wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of an autopsy to possibly find some answers. Given how my mother, sister, and uncle have been torturing themselves, wondering what could’ve been done differently with my dad’s treatment, maybe we could use some answers. But I don’t know if they really exist.

I think all of his various health difficulties over the past 10-12 years – the heart surgeries, the stroke, the irregular heartbeats, the internal bleeding, the poking, the prodding, the pain – it all finally caught up with him. He never once complained. He never once asked “Why me?” He suffered through it all and continued to live his life. But his heart gave out. His heart stopped.

Calling my sister in South Carolina to tell her our father was gone is probably the worst phone call I’ll ever have to make. Her crying, her weeping, her screaming – I hope I never have to hear my little sister suffer like that again. Along with my mother’s weeping, they were all the worst sounds I have ever heard. I feel like I have to be “the strong one” for my mom and sister. And I’m trying. I’m doing my best. When I have a moment to myself, I finally let go too.

As I write this, my father’s memorial service is almost nine hours away. It’ll be held at our church in Ypsilanti, a place that meant so much to him, yet I stopped going there years ago. Before typing this, I finished writing what I’ll say during the service. As soon as the Pastor asked if anyone would be saying anything, I told him I would. I have to speak. For me, for my family, and for my dad. If I didn’t, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

I also wrote my dad’s obituary, something I hoped I wouldn’t be writing for another 20 years. I don’t know if you want to read it, and maybe it’s gratuitous (and morbid) to post a link, but you can view it here. 300 words doesn’t sum him up nearly enough, but I tried.

Over the past six days, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to think of a favorite memory of my dad. And I couldn’t do it. But this is what I kept coming back to: As I said, he’s been through a lot over the past 10-12 years. I know his life became more difficult as his health and energy faded on him. But when I look back on these most recent years, I feel good. Because he and I became closer. I got to know my dad, and he got to know me. We talked and we shared. And we found a lot of common interests – current events, politics, sports, film, literature, and music. My dad became so much more than my father. He became my friend. And I will always cherish that.

My dad knows how much this blog has meant to me. He was supportive of it all along, telling his friends and family to go read his son’s “web log thing.” (“Fried what? What do you mean by that?”) And that’s what I think about when I wonder whether I can go back to writing about all those things that right now seem so trivial. It might be a while before writing about severed fingers in food, my beloved Detroit sports teams, the media, or whatever else I noticed from the TV and newspapers strikes me as important enough to write about.

But I’ll get there. Because it’s important to me. And my dad would’ve wanted to talk about it. And also because I’m grateful to all of you who have cared and been interested enough to read this. Again, thank you for checking in to see if everything was okay. I promise I’ll get back to you soon. I’ve never even seen or met some of you, yet you were concerned. That means a lot to me. And it means a lot to my dad.

Dad, I miss you. And I love you.