My Dad's Big Birthday

My dad's 20th birthday is today. My father was reborn two decades ago. And no he's not a religious zealot. He had a massive stroke when he was just 52, in his prime. I was just 18, a kid, already in limbo. Days before, I'd moved from the town I grew up in. In the weeks before, I had broken up with my high school sweetheart and lost my childhood pet. I was about to go to college in Wisconsin, of all places.

I was at a guy's house when I got the call. We had been drinking beers and said guy had been rolling cigarettes. I had listened to the Red Hot Chili Peppers with the windows down that night. It was heavy and hot out, a sticky suburban summer night. I wore a pale yellow visor and a skirt. I was in shock.

My dad had been healthy, a preeminent cardiologist in the peak of his career. The stroke was a freak thing, caused by an infection and subsequent blood clot. I had seen him earlier that day, or maybe the day before. We ate Millburn Deli sandwiches and joked about his freezing cold IV drip, calling it a Slurpee. He was the smartest man I knew. He was also authoritative, commanding and at times rigid. The stroke stripped him of language, at first. He repeated the word "abnormal" many times. What was happening was not normal.

He needed surgery in order to prevent another stroke. His chances of surviving the surgery were 50 percent. He said goodbye to me and my brothers before he went under. My oldest brother all of a sudden had to help make decisions about my dad's livelihood.

My dad had been in good hands, whether it was the doctor's or God's (my non religious version being a higher power, or The Universe), or both. He survived. Then came really hard parts, a lot more than I'll mention here. For one, he had to relearn the English language. Starting with the curse words. My dad worked all day, every day, to get better. A top doctor had basically said his chance of major recovery was nil. That doctor didn't know my dad, nor his resolve.

I went to college, flailing through four years of self medication. I'll spare the details; they're not pretty. But there was non-stop "partying." I was traumatized from the stroke and likely other childhood wounds as well; I didn't know what else to do. Fortunately, later in my twenties, I hit a sort of rock bottom and sought help. I've been doing The Work ever since.

While I went to school my dad continued to work to get better, with the help of family and friends. He began to thrive, although he would never call it that. Without being able to practice as a cardiologist - his first love - he may never feel "successful."

Of course I know he's successful. We all do. My dad, stepmom, siblings and our spouses recently toasted my dad at his 20th birthday dinner, the anniversary of his stroke, the worst thing to ever happen to him. As I said that evening, I know there are silver linings. He has softened since his stroke. He's warmer and more open, more easygoing. He and I both loved the book Don't Sweat the Small Stuff. I think we're both still working on not sweating the small stuff, at least I am. But we also have a greater appreciation for the big stuff. Health, love, family, experiences.

I'm like my dad in a lot of ways. We hate cheese, although I'm a bit more lenient and eat pizza. We like our coffee and wine, reading and being active. Dark chocolate, pistachio ice cream, travel. Bill Murray movies. It's a Wonderful Life. My dad introduced me to the classic movie one Christmas Eve when I was staying at his house, sometime in my twenties. It will always make me think of him, and how symbolic. A film celebrating all the wondrous aspects of life, even in the face of incredible challenges.

AER