Life without a Dad

Who knew I had something in common with Anderson Cooper and Steven Colbert?

Turns out both their dads died young, just like mine, when Cooper and Colbert were 10 years old. Today, some 45 years later, they say their dads still remain alive in their minds. “I wish people asked me about my dad,” Cooper said. “I’d like to talk about him, but no one asks.”  Colbert agreed, adding, “It’s still hard to accept that most people I know never knew my father.”

My father died from tuberculosis when he was 46. I was 13 and, like Cooper and Colbert, I haven’t had much opportunity to talk about him. But recently, while visiting my oldest cousin, Jessie, now 95, and my only remaining relative that knew my father, I decided to ask her about him.

“Your dad was my favorite uncle,” Jessie said, without hesitation. “How come?” I asked, glad to have a chance to talk about him. “Because he loved to laugh and be with people,” she said, “and everyone loved him. He taught me how to do crossword puzzles and I still thank him for that today.”

I had forgotten about his love for crossword puzzles, but now I can recall seeing him in his armchair, after dinner, next to the radio console, pencil in hand, figuring out the puzzle in the Daily News. When one of his favorite radio shows came on, like Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, he’d put down the pencil and stop to listen, and then return to the puzzle when the program ended.

“Your dad was a smart man,” Jessie said, “he’d gone to college for a year, which is way more education than any of his siblings had had, so they went to him for all kinds of advice.” That I did remember. “Let’s go ask John-Joe,” my aunts and uncles would say. That’s what everyone called him—short for John Joseph—pronouncing it as if it were one word. “Remember when he would take us to the Laff movie theater on 42nd street?” Jessie asked. “That’s where I learned to love Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin.” “I remember,” I said. “He’d take us to the Saturday morning show and then take us for lunch at Horn & Hardarts.”

On the way home from seeing cousin Jessie, I was filled with loving and lingering thoughts about my dad. He had died much too young and had spent so much time in and out of hospitals during my 13 years that we hadn’t had a chance to spend much time together. It made me think.

Had he lived, I might have gone to college with my peers.

Had he lived, I might not have had to get married to leave home.

Had he lived, I might not have had to feel so responsible for my mother.

Had he lived, Mom might have had an easier life.

Had he lived, she might not have had to be so dependent on me. For everything.

And had he lived, I might not have had to hear Mom keep repeating, “Don’t work too hard; you’ll make yourself sick…just like Daddy.”

I last saw my father at my elementary school graduation from 8th grade. Seaview Hospital, a TB sanitarium on Staten Island, had given him a pass just for the day. As I sat on the stage, I saw him enter the auditorium. In a brown leather jack and gray slacks, he looked handsome; he even looked healthy. How he could look so good and be so sick, I wondered. After the morning ceremony, Dad took Mom and me out to lunch, but it was short. He had to return to the hospital by late afternoon. It was heartbreaking to have to say goodbye.

“Be good, study hard,” he said, hugging and kissing me. I nodded, trying to keep back the tears. That was late June. I never saw him again. He died hemorrhaging from surgery that December.

I look forward to visiting Jessie again. There’s so much more I want to know. How much of me is like my father? His love of learning. His sense of humor. His passion for people. Talking about him helps to make him real again and remain an important part of me. Even seventy years later.

Thank you Anderson Cooper and Steven Colbert.