Being the son of a demographer I am well aware that the person who lives to be a hundred years old is an anomaly. An anomoly that we’ve been lucky enough to experience twice, on Dad’s side of the family, so there was always the hope of an unusually long life for Dad.

Being the son of a social scientist and looking at the evidence that we have of what constitutes a happy, healthy life well lived, and the average lifespan of a male of his cohort, his own efforts of living an active, healthy life, full of love, friendships, and a sense of righteous purpose it was not unreasonable to expect that Dad would live life beyond the median.

It was Dad’s 75th birthday, the median had come and gone. Happily Dad was still with us.  And some moderately worrying medical news came in.

Somehow, I had come by the habit of procrastination. If it had been a positive habit that I had learned from him, Dad would have said that I had come by it honestly. It’s not a positive habit, so that means that the means were dishonest?

Being the son of scientist, I can be reasonably certain that time is infinite, and infinitely certain that time waits for no-one.

Being the son of a social scientist and understanding the value of generational wisdom, on Dad’s 75th birthday I wanted to squeeze as much fatherly wisdom as I could out of him in the limited time we had left. I thought of calling, but what would we say? Dad wasn’t much of a talker, except when he was. Our phone conversations, full of (some would say composed mainly of) meaningful-to-us pauses, didn’t always have a lot of words in them.

Thinking about it some more I realized that I had already had a lifetime of  sage advice. 

Being the son of a wordsmith I  thought of some frequent and favourite Dad-isms. For his 75th, I wrote him a birthday poem. I was sitting at the dive shop desk at the beach in Mexico, good thing no-one came by, I was a mess. How do you say goodbye to your dad? This is how I did it, by twisting his words;

Fatherly Advice

Happy Birthday Pops,
Hope it was all tops,
Not turvy,
The cut of the cake, 
Not curvy,
The drive to the lake,
Not swervy.
I hope you’re feeling swell,
And not in the least unwell,
From excessive party,
With that young bride of yours, Varty,
This message is from your son,
In whose eyes you are Dad, number one,
My bride also grants you wishes,
From this land of many fishes,
We both would like to say,
We wish you a very Happy Birthday.
We wish it late in the day,
That’s just our Mexican way,
A little slower out the gate,
But with a true love that’s great,
For the patriarch, that’s you,
Since nineteen seventy two,
That’s how long the patriarchy reigns,
At least in our domain.

I think back on advice that’s been given,
Into my very psyche, been driven.
And so, We raise a toast, 
To the host, 
With the most,
To the man,
With a plan,
Up your nose, 
With a rubber hose,
May you get to Japan,
And then to the zoo,
May the beer be on tap and,
The wine also too.

May the bastards grind you down, never,
May you always be for them, too clever.
May you, with a big stick softly walking,
Be the one about whom no-one is talking,
But all feel the change in the air,
Because of your presence, there.

Long may your skis glide,
And smoothly your bike ride.
To the man of the hour,
And to naps, that are power.
May your wine and your cheese  give you pleasure,
Like yourself, may they be time’s treasure.
Three score and fifteen,
There’s a lot in between,
The start and today,
The sun is still shining. 
Make hay.

And then we got unlucky, the diagnosis got worse.

And then we got lucky again, we received wonderful advice and Dad received excellent care. We were lucky enough to have him around, physically more tired, but with his dry wit still intact, for another statistically improbable two years. 

As the son of a lobbyist I had learned that you catch more flies with honey. (As the grandson of Ruth Collishaw I very nearly learned that you catch more bees with honey.) So I got another chance to try to cheer him up as he went through the ups and downs of the cancer treatment. To make him happy I thought I’d have a crack at that gallows humour he would sometimes mention.

Gallows humour

There once was a man given Gemcitabine,
He said “Doc, take it back it ain’t mine”
Doc said, “This you’ll just hate,
It’s Methotrexate,Doxorubicin, Cisplatin and  Vinblastine.”

The man took the infernal concoction,
And felt an internal eruption,
Gas was produced,
Stomach was juiced,
With some kind of intestinal corruption.

This brave man went back,
And said to this hack,
“Now look what you’ve done,
You’ve upset my Tum”,
Doc said, “It’s the fibre, cut back.”
There was on old man on a diet,
On holiday not ready to fly yet,
With infinite glee,
He could just pee,
Without feeling the need to die yet.

There once was an old guy called Death,
Who thought that he’d pull out Neil’s last breath,
Neil kicked him so hard,
Right in the ‘nards,
That Death decided to take a vacation Out West.

There was a young fella named Neil,
A young buck, full sex appeal,
Barb sized him up,
Said, “That I’ll schtup”,
At 56 years married, unreal.

“Recovery’s going well then?” Asked Doctor,
“I feel like the young pup of an Otter.
“Came the answer,”Screw the Cancer,
I’ve faced tougher, with a knife meant for butter.”
“I’ve beat down soulless corporations,
Made them say uncle, prostrations,
Done good more than bad,
Plenty fun, had,
And now’s party time, libations!”

And now, as the son of a good man, I hope, in my own small way, to live up to his example, and his advice.

Thank you for sharing your stories.