Never Too Heavy for Me to Carry

When I was a child, my family did not own a car. In fact, the first car we got was a Datsun B210 when I was twelve years old. This meant that anywhere we went, whether to school, grocery shopping or appointments, we either walked or took the bus around our small town. One walk stands out in my memory. My father and I were climbing a steep hill walking home from a doctor's appointment to which he had taken me. I was about eight years old at the time, and had recently experienced a growth spurt. My dad was a diminutive man, standing just 5'4" and weighing about 140 pounds. My little legs were tired, though, so I shyly asked my dad a question.

"Daddy," I asked, "am I too heavy for you to carry?"

He stopped near the steps to someone's house and motioned for me up onto them. Bending so that I could climb on for a piggyback ride, he answered.

"Babe," he said, "you will never be too heavy for me to carry."

Those words resonated within the core of me and remained in the recesses of my mind and my heart throughout my life. Dad was always a man of his word, and this was no exception.

When I was twelve, we moved across the country from Jamestown, New York to the Tucson desert so that Dad could find work. Leaving my best friend of eight years and the only home I had ever known was devastating. Dad did everything he could to carry me through that upset, from letting me call "home" every Saturday and talk to my best friend or Grandma as long as I needed, to spending his days off driving us around to learn about our new city.

Dad was there through my awkward junior high years and the painful heartbreaks high school doled out. He was the one person I knew I could always talk to; the one I knew loved me unconditionally and would never judge me. I knew this like I knew my own name. That is, until I became pregnant the month I turned nineteen.

I had always been the "good girl." The one with high grades, who sang in the school choir and volunteered to help with the church nursery. Sometimes, though, life deals you a bad hand. Several people I loved and trusted had hurt and abandoned me in fairly traumatic ways, which led to some lousy decisions on my part. I was terrified and disappointed in myself, and was frightened that my father would feel the same way.

Dad lived across town at the time, and I did not own a car, so I used the payphone at the neighborhood convenience store to call him. As soon as I heard his voice, I broke down.

"Daddy," I cried, "I think you are going to hate me."

Dad did not miss a beat.

"Babe," he answered, "Nothing you could ever do could make me hate you."

I told him about the baby. Rather than condemn me, he rejoiced, saying that a baby is a blessing and that it would all work out. Dad was in the delivery room with my boyfriend (who is now my husband) and me when our daughter was born.

Fast forward a dozen years, give or take. Dad went to the doctor to see about some problems he was having: trouble swallowing and some odd dizziness. They checked his thyroid and other possible causes, but the diagnosis rocked us all. Dad had cancer. I knew he would be fine, though. I knew this because he was my Dad. He was invincible.

I was wrong. Dad fought a good, long battle but did not win the war. He had to quit working and quit driving, but didn't want to give up his freedom or be a burden to anyone. When he began having daily seizures - one causing food to burn dangerously on the stove - I put my foot down. Dad came to live with us.

As the disease progressed, I increasingly took on the role of parent. Never in my wildest imagination could I have envisioned myself nearly carrying him to the bathroom, and later changing Dad's diapers or bathing him and giving him suppositories when he could no longer swallow pills, but I did it.

Dad never lost his sense of humor, telling me once, "You're getting good at this, Babe."

Near the end, Dad talked about the nice, funny guys who were always standing in the corner. I was honored to know I was in the presence of God's angels. Dad slept more and more each day, until there were no longer any waking hours. On one of these final days, I took the opportunity to sit with him, hold his hand, and have one of our final talks.

I told him how grateful I was that I had such an amazing dad. I thanked him for everything he had taught me, and for the knowledge that I was always loved and cherished, unconditionally. I let him know that we would all be okay, and that the love we had would remain.

"And Daddy," I said, "I just want you to know that you were never too heavy for me to carry."