By Emily Alexander
I grew up pretty sheltered in a retirement community in Arkansas. The average age of the person on my street was about 60 years old. Blue hair, yapping small Chihuahuas, and corny yard ornaments littered our corners.
I was my parent’s “miracle child.” My mom, an American, met my British father while she was teaching music in college in Australia. They had me late in life, when mom was 40 and dad was about 50. The generational differences between us caused the occasional tears, slamming doors, and screaming matches, especially during the tumultuous teenage years, but overall, there was little drama. I never doubted the all-encompassing love I had for my parents, or their undying devotion for me. They may not have understood my wild whimsies, my carefree clothes, or my lazy language, but they loved me totally and entirely.
After high school, I went to a small, private Christian college. The most exciting thing to do for fun in this town was catching people on Lover’s Lane or going to the dollar theater for a late-night movie. This was definitely not a normal, wild college town, full of boisterous bars and rowdy co-ed dorms.
I loved being away from home, even though the town was so small it had a volunteer fire department. I didn’t have my parents there to impose my curfew, grant approval of my clothes, or give the “ok” to my dating. I loved being able to decide things for myself, and I took full advantage of my freedom.
Whenever I told one of my college friends about my upbringing, it was very hard for them to understand the tie I had to my parents. Yes, life had been strict with them; but while I loved my freedom, and I didn’t agree with everything my parents did or said, I cared deeply about what my parents, especially my dad, thought of me. Their approval was something I still desired, and their pride in me was essential.
One day, my senior year of college, I came down with the flu. I was student teaching at the time, living by myself in an apartment off campus. I was already lonely, and all I wanted while I was sick was for someone to take care of me-to crawl into my childhood bed, relax into the familiar smelling sheets, and smell my mom cooking my favorite chicken noodle soup. During a phone call with my dad, I mentioned how much I missed them and how hard it was to take care of yourself while you were sick. And lo and behold, the next day when I got home from teaching, there was my dad, smiling his crooked smile with his English cap on, waiting to come inside and pamper me like I was his little girl again.
I think most people would have been annoyed-they were young adults, proving to themselves that they could make it on their own. But me? I just wanted my dad. I wanted to be taken care of, tucked into bed. I was tired of being stressed out, of being alone. I only had a few months left of being a student. After that, you don’t get a break from life anymore, and I was going to take full advantage of the break I had.
Dad stayed through the weekend, and we had a wonderful time together. He cooked for me, met the boy I was dating, walked the halls of my campus, dropped in on my English class, and I showed him the many “famous” sites of my tiny college town. It was the last time dad and I would really spend quality time together alone for more than a few hours.
Almost a decade later, married and pregnant with my first child, we found out my dad had a brain tumor. He made it almost eight months; thankfully, dad got to see his grandson at only two weeks old. When my son was four weeks old, we were able to make it back to Arkansas three hours before dad passed away—a total miracle. I couldn’t help but feel like he was hanging on for me to get there. And as I sat holding my dad’s hand and staring at my newborn son, the only thing I could think of was that weekend: how glad I was that we got to spend it together, how glad I am that I didn’t care what my friends thought of me and how others viewed me as a spoiled daddy’s girl that was too reliant on her parents. That weekend was special, and means even more to me now. As I watched my dad take his last breath, he let out a contented sigh. And I wondered if he was thinking of that weekend, too.