Dad

For some reason, I thought that writing about my dad would be easy, that I would get some divine inspiration and the perfect words would flow freely from my pen, but nothing about anything that has happened over the past few months has been easy, so why would writing about him be any different?

If you didn't know my dad, Kevin Dress, I feel truly sorry for you. Some of us can be consoled by the fact that we did know him, albeit too briefly.

He was a generous man, with his time, his advice, his laughter. He had an incredible work ethic, but also knew the importance of balance, putting away his work in the evening and taking advantage of the simple things that brought him great joy: Frank Sinatra, a martini or a Manhattan, the Wall Street Journal, cooking, conversation and family. Those are just some of the things that made him so uniquely him.

But, there were some characteristics that emerged during the last two months of his life.

My dad was not a very patient man, to which anyone who had ever sat with him in a car during any bit of traffic can attest, but he became a lot more patient during the last couple of months, probably because he wasn't driving anymore. When my mom and I wanted to drag him to yet another appointment of the holistic variety, he complied. And when we wanted to stuff him full of every fruit and vegetable and every supplement under the sun, or ply him with enough carrot juice to drown a horse, he agreed to it. I think he was just upset that his appetite wouldn't allow him to do more. He was patient while he was waiting for the treatment or cure that he was constantly reassured of but which never came.

Because of those words that he heard all the time, “treatable” and “curable”, he was hopeful. He always expected good news, even though two years full of bad news should have taught him differently. Even at the end, he never talked about, “After I'm gone...” I don't think this was wishful thinking or denial on his part, so much as a releasing of the control that he had. Over the last two months of his life, he had to let so much of his power go, and as a result, my mom, my brother, and I had to take over a lot of things that we weren't used to doing. It gave us the chance to become stronger and more accepting of the changes that would eventually occur.

Sometimes there are moments in people's lives when they take you by surprise; like, if someone started to tell you a story and asked you to guess how it would end, what really happened is the exact opposite of what you thought. One time, when my family was staying at my grandparents' condo down in Florida, my brother and I tried to walk out to this island not very far from the beach. When the tide was low, we always thought it would be possible, so one day, we gave it a try. We were about halfway there and realized we had made a mistake. I expected my dad to be upset with us when he came to rescue us, carrying each of us under his arms as if we were sacks of potatoes. Instead, he just went on about how strong the undertow was, and wasn't that pull crazy. Another time, when I was learning to drive, he let me get on the interstate for the first time. Being one who likes to be in control, I was sure that he would be yelling at me the entire time about what I was doing wrong; that wasn't the case. He was busy opening the mail, and I had to practically beg him to pay attention to me.

He was the same with dying. Even while he was in his hospital bed, we still felt like things would be fine because he was there with us, that he was still carrying us. Little did we realize that he was letting go bit by bit all along, so that we would be able to do it by ourselves. And we can. And we will. But, he's not here, and that makes everything a little bit worse.

Being back in Thailand has been both a blessing and a hardship. I have my work here, so I'm busy and can think about other things, but I'm also surrounded by people who didn't know my dad, and I realize how lucky we truly are, his family and friends, to have known such a great man that he only needed 55 years, as Ernest Hemingway put it, “to live all the way up.”

I love you, Dad.