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best thing to hold on to is each other.
was sleeping late. I had just published the first issue of my local newspaper,
Atlanta 30306, and was recovering from three all-nighters earlier in the month.
The phone rang.
call was from either a brother or a sister. I don't remember which now. My dad
had been walking down the hallway at the Northside YMCA on Roswell Road, going
to his daily swimming aerobics class, when he had a massive stroke.
drove quickly to Piedmont Hospital and ran into the emergency room. I thought
about how Dad had cared for me there through broken bones, an appendectomy and
so on. Now, I was going to see him.
found him in a room, unconscious. It was so quiet. I just stood by his side,
helplessly. A nurse I hadn't seen standing in the corner told me I could touch
him? I thought. How? I looked at his hands. I remembered grasping them in
handshakes for years. I remembered how later, after our family discovered
affection, hugging him, and even in recent years, kissing him. But I had no
memory of ever just holding his hand, as a child might grab a parent's hand to
cross the street.
placed his hand in mine and just held it. It felt so large; bony, yet soft. Why
have I never done this before? I thought. Was it my insecurities or his?
both. It was the last time I touched my father. He never regained consciousness
and died later that evening.
revisit that image often and have drawn much comfort from remembering that
simple act of holding hands with my dad during the last hours of his life. A
seemingly small gesture, but one that allows two people to connect so quickly,
own eleven-year-old son knows this and is, thankfully, not bound by the
inhibitions of earlier generations. One time, after my dad's death, I was
walking in a mall with him and his cousin of the same age. His cousin asked him
why he was holding my hand. He said nothing, but quickly released my grasp. That
was it, I thought. The defining moment. Even though I had felt a little
self-conscious holding his hand there in the mall, I knew I would miss his touch
more than he would ever know. Yet, a few weeks later during another weekend
together, he quietly slipped his hand in mine. I felt connected again.
summer in Paris, we walked along the Seine as I led him and his
thirteen-year-old sister to cathedrals and museums. He grabbed my hand, and we
walked together for several blocks. My daughter, who had stopped holding my hand
at age nine or ten, sped up and looked over at the clasp. I knew she was going
to say something as only a sister, much too cool for such a display, would. Then
she caught my eye and my smile. Uncharacteristically, she retreated and said
so we continued along the riverbank, a family of three, she comfortable in her
detachment, my son content with his innate instinct to connect with others, and
me, somewhere in between.
we have a choice of when to let go. Sometimes, we don't.
1998 Chris Schroder. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Chicken Soup for the
Father's Soul, by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jeff Aubery, Mark Donnelly,
Chrissy Donnelly; _ 2001.