Lance and Dale

As a father, you want what's best for your children, even when they are grown and on their own. Isn't it true that a good dad puts his own needs secondary to what's important to his children? Doesn't he keep his promise and show up everyday? If love cannot be said in words, sometimes actions speak in ways that words cannot.

My own dad showed me love in my life and I grew up knowing I was cared for. Sometimes a man doesn't follow his good dad's good example though. In spite of the fact I have my father's blue eyes, I don't see life in the same way.

I neglected my own children early on. I justified it all by believing that I was a good provider for my family. I was Dr. Dale Mandel, M.D. Everyone slept in a warm bed at night and no one was hungry. Life went on and time got away from me. The next thing I knew, it was the year of 2018.

"Dad," my oldest daughter, Becky, said on the phone, "Lance has been diagnosed with cancer and he needs your support."

Lance was my first born son, arriving in the spring of 1970, and his four older siblings welcomed him home. I was born in 1945, and I was an only son, raised on a Texas farm and doing fairly well. At age-19, I married a lady my age and we had our own family to raise.

Darcy and I didn't raise our 3 girls and 2 boys on a farm though. We moved to a large metropolitan city and did our best. I worked where I could and put myself through school. It was a long stretch to go from farm plowing in Texas to a medical career. Somehow, I did it though and I paid the bills.

I saved lives, all the while destroying my own, and my children hardly ever saw me. I was a respected doctor, raising the kids in a large split-level house, with two brand new cars in the garage. On the outside, we were a picture perfect looking tribe. On the inside, I was miserable.

Misery loves company and I found myself in the bars at night. After all, I worked incredibly long hours and I needed to unwind a bit. You might say I drank the drink all the way to running out of time. I couldn't hide what I was. I was an alcoholic, in a cold and lonely bar, and I couldn't stop drinking.

The girls were Darcy's pride and joy and the boys were her strength. Our daughters Lori, Diane, and Becky aged to be lovely ladies with families of their own. The boys, Michael and Lance followed their own dreams and found their rightful calling in life.

"Lance doesn't want anything to do with me." I said to Becky. After a long silence and a sigh on the telephone, she simply hung up, leaving me with a sting of guilt. It was the year 2018 and my Becky was a 43-year grandmother with three beautiful daughters now. Her angry old man was age-75 stubborn goat with an attitude.

The telephone rang again and I could barely hear what Becky was saying. She said the family was getting together the following Saturday at Darcy's house and I should know. Darcy was re-married, in a loving relationship with a man I hated, and they were celebrating their 25th anniversary. I was a widowed man, having lost my second wife eleven years ago.

Though I sobered up and joined a self-help group twenty years ago, Lance was bitter. He, of all my children, told me in my seventh year of sobriety that he had given up on me. He didn't believe that I'd stopped drinking and he'd prefer that his children not know their Grandpa. My recovery sponsor suggested that I "let go and let God."

When I rang the doorbell, I could hear the non-stop talking in Darcy's house, and I wanted to run. Becky hadn't invited me and, if she had, it was on a subconscious level. No one knew I was coming. I really don't think I even knew myself. I only know I drove around Bob and Darcy's neighborhood for an hour and finally parked my car in their driveway.

Bob gently pushed his wife aside and stared at me for the longest minute. I took my red baseball off of my silver haired head, leaned on my old hickory cane, and waited. "Come on in," Bob stuttered as he opened the door and I stepped inside. Needless to say, every eye was on mine, and I was petrified.

Lance stood up from the black leather chair in the living room, walking towards me, and I was without words. It's not that I had a prepared speech to offer. I had a hurting heart though and I wanted to make peace somehow. My precious boy was dying.

"Dad"

"Lance"

"Dad, I . . ."

"Son, I'm so sorry for all the wasted years. Here, I'm a doctor of medicine and I can't even save my own son."

I don't know how or why it is that the tears flowed on that day. Maybe my sponsor was correct in telling me to "let go and let God." All I know is that I wasn't the only grown man crying out loud. I looked up, lifting my bowed head, and there was my boy holding me in his arms.

Lance and I did a little walking on that day, winding up on the swing in my ex-wife's backyard, and we talked forever. We said we were too old for letting the past get in the way and would the best of what time was left.

"Dad," my son said to me, "I'm proud of you for getting sober."

"Thank-you, Lance, and I want you to know that I've always, always been proud of you. I love you, son."

"I love you too, Dad. Always."