The Man of My Life

Twenty-five years ago today my daddy died. He was 70 years old and a doctor beloved by all his patients.

Long-time readers know I don't have a great relationship with my mother. But I had a wonderful relationship with Daddy. I adored him, and he mirrored my feelings.

Where Mother tore me down and demeaned me, Daddy built me up and made me feel I had worth.

He was a small-town physician when Orlando was a relatively small town, long before the Mouse hit town. He left the house at 6:00 every morning to make rounds, eat breakfast at some small restaurant between the hospital and his office, and then see patients all day. Several days a week he performed general surgery. Operating room tasks were his favorite, and he told me once that, if he had it to do over again, he would specialize in surgery. For years he took obstetric patients, until tiring of the 2am calls. His day finished with the day's paperwork and more hospital rounds. He usually got home around 11:00 p.m., long after I was in bed.

I lived for Wednesday afternoons and Sundays, when he was off. On Wednesday evenings, the family would go to dinner at Howard Johnson's, where we could get a vegetable plate. I would order chocolate cake, saving the frosting for the last few bites. Daddy would inevitably reach his fork over and steal a little of my chocolate frosting.

Even to this day, Daddy is in my head, telling me I'm a good girl, telling me he's proud of me.

How lucky I was to have had him in my life.