Years My Dad Never Had

Like other older adults with a parent who died young, I am aware that I am living years that my dad never had. Last week, on a day I spent all morning leisurely writing and all afternoon leisurely fishing, it occurred to me that not only have I outlived my dad by more than twenty years, but the best years of my life were the kinds of years he never had.

My favorite years were during the 1970s and early 80s. I was in my twenties and in my prime. In all that time, I never held the same job for more than two years. I never lived in the same city for more than three. When I tired of school, I got a job. When I tired of work, I went back to school. Except for a few years of marriage to my first wife, I was beholding to no one. The only real tragedy during those years was the death of my dad.

In contrast, my dad was twenty-one years old and recently out of the Army when I was born. My mom was eighteen. To put this in perspective, my mom and dad were younger parents when I graduated from college than I was when Clare was born. In my twenties, I was clumsily trying to figure out life. In their twenties, my parents were raising a family.

My second best block of time is now: life in retirement. My dad died of cancer at the age of fifty-one, so he worked right up until the day he went into the hospital. In total, he worked for thirty years, which is the same number of years that I worked after finishing my Ph.D. The difference is that, for my dad, thirty years was his entire adult life. For me, thirty years left lots of downtime before and after my primary work years. My dad never had any downtime.

I’d be sadder about all of this had it not been for something my dad told me not long before he died. The seriousness of our conversations during the three months he was sick exceeded any discussions we ever had when he was healthy. When he knew he was about to die, he told me that he had no regrets. He would have preferred to live long enough to meet his grandkids and make them something in his wood shop to remember him by, but otherwise he’d done pretty much everything that he wanted to.

Writing this particular blog has me wondering whether I’ve done everything that I want to do. My gut says that there something else out there, but I don’t know what it is.