On a curiously warm morning last February, the minister arrived at my childhood home to guide my father to the other side. When he approached the bedside where all of us were gathered around with the Eagles Pandora radio humming in the background, my dad emerged from a semi-conscious state and sat up as best as he could. “Listen. I am not dying,” he declared. As an early-career researcher focused on palliative and end-of-life care, I am all too familiar with the signs of imminent death; to be sure, this declaration could only be a product of denial or a dark attempt at irony.
My dad was notoriously dry-humored and matter-of-fact. When he told a joke, he would raise his eyebrows, lean towards you, and tell it out of just one side of his mouth as though he was letting you in on a secret. We shared sarcastic banter, “Seinfeld” references, and a phone call every Friday afternoon to recap the week. We did not, however, make a habit of sharing our feelings with each other. He was never one to talk existentially or even to verbalize his affection towards my brothers or me. Just when you thought the man didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body, though, you’d walk downstairs during the holidays and find him alone watching decades-old home videos, chuckling to himself. Even in the face of his stoicism, his love was apparent.
Your patients are rating you online: How to respond. Manage your online reputation: A social media guide. Find out how.
