A Triathlete's Father's Day

this is the companion piece for A Triathlete's Mother's Day. in addition, in the U.S., this year Father's Day is Sunday, June 15.

You almost lost him, and you didn't even know it.

He was never the most expressive person in your family. Quiet. Silent. Spare in his language. As equally stoic with his speech as he was with his emotions. He occupied the polar opposite of your mother: whereas she spoke often and with many words, he spoke infrequently and with few; whereas she lived by her passion, he held to his reason. As a result, he'd never been a dominating presence in your life.

But it wasn't that he had nothing to say. You knew, as much as everyone knew, that his was a sophisticated mind, one with many thoughts, and that he thought his thoughts as every bit as your mother made known hers. The difference was that hers ran like the rapids of a swift surging cataract; his ran like the still waters of a slow-flowing river, moving as strong and as deep and as inexorable as the inevitability of time matched to the mysteries of eternity lying beyond the horizons of creation's great seas.

Which is why you should have noticed.

You should have noticed when he stopped riding his bicycle.

You should have noticed when he stopped walking around the neighborhood.

You should have noticed when he stopped working in the back yard, or on the outside of the house, or even inside with the chores.

You should have noticed when he talked about needing to rest, and about being tired, and about feeling his age. When he became reluctant to get groceries, to pick up the mail, to fill up the fuel in the car. When he stopped checking his voice-mail or e-mail. When he stopped even cooking his own food.

You should have noticed.

But you didn't.

Instead, you invited him to see you at Ironman. You reminded him of his endurance days in Sweden. You reminded him of his time when he rode 300 kilometers in 2 days, fueled by nothing but milk and eggs, riding a 25 kilogram steel-frame bike. You reminded him of his time when he ice-skated 65 kilometers across the Oresund from Malmö to Copenhagen and back.

You said you wanted him to see you doing Ironman.

He said he wanted to see you doing it, too.

You should have noticed when he said it was going to be his last trip.

But you didn't.

Instead, you waited for him to arrive with your mother on a separate, direct flight from Auckland to Taupo. You helped him carry his suitcase and bags. You walked with him along the Lake Terrace sidewalk into the Taupo Domain park. You stayed with him as he stopped every few meters to catch his breath.

And it was then you noticed that even though he couldn't stand for than a few minutes at a time, he watched, as much as he was able, as long as he was able, as possible as he was able, the entire course of race day, long enough to learn that you'd finished.

And it was then you noticed that even though he couldn't wake up with the sunrise, he woke up early the next day, and came to the post-race breakfast, and ate a full meal with you and your mother.

And it was then you noticed that even though he couldn't hold a conversation any longer than a few whispers, he spoke with everyone you introduced him to, especially the Ironman athletes who were his own age (or older), and who had done the race with you--and had finished.

And it was then you heard him say that there was something wrong, and that he needed help...and because these words came from him, you knew they were important.

Which is why it was significant when the doctors scheduled him for emergency surgery. Which is why it was significant when they held him a week in the hospital. Which is why it was significant when the prognosis was for months of recovery. Which is why it was significant when the cardiologists and surgeons told you that they were shocked that someone in his condition had been able to live so long, and that by all rights he shouldn't even have been around, let alone travel, let alone to another country, let alone across an ocean, let alone through 7 time zones, let alone on a plane, let alone even be in the audience to watch an Ironman.

And you knew then that you'd almost lost him.

And you realized then the reality of what it would be like without his presence in your life.

And you understood then the magnitude of his mortality.

You told him, finally, some weeks after surgery, over the phone. In the slow, awkward, measured conversations that occur so often between fathers and sons, particularly over the so many things so profound and so significant and so broken by the silence of that which can be said against that which can only be unsaid, and which instead can only be left to be shared as something special between our souls.

You said to him: I thought I'd lost you.

He replied: I thought I'd lost me to.

You joked: It isn't time for Valhalla yet.

He laughed: I don't know about Valhalla, but New Zealand was probably the best thing that could have happened to me.

And then there was a pause.

And then he said:

I would have given up if it hadn't been for you.

And the two of you said nothing more, because the emotions ran beyond the reach of words.

Like the still waters of a slow-flowing river, moving as strong and as deep and as inexorable as the inevitability of time matched to the mysteries of eternity lying beyond the horizons of creation's great seas.

And they run still.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Jag älskar dig (kram du).