Tribute on a fatherless Father's Day

My father, Roger Butler, died 12-1/2 years ago. Even though on Father's Day my children and I can celebrate my husband, Jon, I still sorely miss my own dad. All of these years later, I instinctively want to pick out a card for him, or pop into a store to buy him a tie, a shirt or something nautical. It's a day when I am most keenly aware of his absence.

The following was written and published in 1996, one month before my father passed, in Connecticut's County Kids magazine. I hope that it resonates with those who are also "fatherless," as well as with those whose dads are very much alive and well.

Wishing all dads a Happy Father's Day next weekend!

"The Circle of Life."

At no time in my life has that phrase held more meaning than over the past year. In early July 1995, my son, Jack, was conceived. At the same time - as far as our family can determine - Lou Gehrig's disease (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis) was born unto my father's body.

ALS is a terminal, progressive, motor neuron disease that eventually robs the body of all its muscle function.

As Jack has thrived and grown strong since his birth at the end of March, so has my dad's health rapidly deteriorated. Jack has been finding his voice; my father has lost his ability to speak.

Jack has discovered that his legs can allow him to jump and stand in his Exersaucer; my dad must now get around in a wheelchair.

Jack can now hold his head up. My father's neck muscles are weakening.

My role as a parent seems somehow more important now, as the intellect and teachings of my own parents come rushing at me. And as I count up - conjure up - all that I have learned from my father, I realize that he is allowing me one more, final lesson. And that I, in turn, will be teaching my children the same, hard lesson: How to deal with the death of a loved one.

I recently sat with Jack on my lap, feeding him a bottle, sobbing quietly at a memory of Dad. Suddenly I felt a "presence," and looked down at Jack. He had stopped sucking and was staring up at me. I stared back into eyes that seemingly held more wisdom than they ought. As my moment of grief eased, he slowly broke into a smile, a familiar smile he had inherited from his grandfather. A smile that wordlessly told me it was going to be okay to miss Dad. That he would always be as close as a written word from my pen, sea spray on my face, or the taste of his favorite Key Lime pie.

Or a smile from the grandson born in the year he learned he was to leave.