Happy Birthday Dad

8.30.2024

Today would have been my dad’s 62nd birthday. I was at my laptop last night and every other year I would have been finishing up his birthday card. I didn’t want that to stop this year, so I’m still writing out his card. But instead of it just being for my dad, I want to share it this year.

Dear Dad,

Happy birthday. I love and miss you more than I can even begin to express. I know that you said it’s our job over time to untangle the pain and the joy. I try to celebrate you and share your strength every day. But it’s hard to not really feel the pain today. I miss the smell of your homemade cake from scratch this morning (yes you convinced us that even if you don’t measure out the dry ingredients and use them from a box, you still mix everything together so it counts as “from scratch”). I miss your booming laugh. I miss your bear hugs. I miss your advice. I miss your stories, even the ones I heard 30 times. I miss the way you’d take my hand and squeeze it and if I didn’t squeeze yours back, you’d ask if my squeezer was broken. Most of all, I miss your presence - I miss you. The world feels wrong without you here.

I know you’d probably hate that ramble. You’d have a solution for everything I just said. You’d tell me to bake your cake, give mom a hug, share your stories and ask others for new ones. And even when I’d think I had you stumped with something you couldn’t fix - I miss your presence - you’d tell me that you’re still always with me and I carry you with me every second of every day in my heart.

You always know exactly what to say and do. That’s what has been so hard about these past four months. You were my absolute rock. A given. A solid, immovable force. No matter what came our way, I could always count on you. When the five of us were in Barcelona and were caught in the middle of a city-wide riot, you got us back to our apartment. I remember being terrified, but I was holding your hand so I knew deep down that you wouldn’t let anything happen to us and we’d be okay. On the Monday afternoon you told me and the girls about your cancer diagnosis, you knew what to say to comfort us. You comforted us. You said you were dealt a tough hand but that you were working with the best doctors to come up with a plan. As tough as it was, you were tougher and you loved us all very much. You taught us not to be afraid to talk to you about cancer and to share the hard things. That true strength is being vulnerable. I think your exact quote was that true strength is asking others for help in times of need and actually accepting the help. I’m still not very good at that, but I’m working on it.

You never failed to set the standard and be the perfect example. Over these past four months, I’ve gotten so many texts with the 4 letters: WWLD - what would Lew do. For the thousands and thousands of lives you’ve touched and forever changed, everyone still turns to you in their hardest moments. I always will because the best way to handle any situation is how you would.

You never feared getting older. I remember when you were about to turn 60, you told me that while some people fear the round number birthdays, you use them as a chance to reflect. You like to look back and see how far you’d come in the past 10 years. In my own way in your birthday cards, I’d try to do the same. I’d reflect on the past year. Reflect on how much you taught me. Be in awe of your accomplishments. And be so thankful for your love and determination to show your love to us every day. I’d always finish my card writing that I didn’t think I could be any prouder to be your son, be more thankful to have you as my dad, and love you more than I did last year, but you never failed to outdo yourself. Overachiever…

This past year was no exception. In fact, without even saying anything, you taught me one of the most powerful lessons of my life. It was back in March in the hospital. We were in one of the back holding rooms waiting to sign consent papers for a new round of radiation. I could see how bad the pain had gotten. To put things in perspective, I know that your pain scale started where most others’ stop. So, yours being an 8/10 is unimaginable to pretty much everyone else. I will never forget the look in your eyes. It was a look of pure, utter determination. Even as you lost some physical strength, your fight only grew. The radiation gave no guarantees except for one - it was going to cause more pain and discomfort while you were on the table. It might not work, it might not help, and it might not alleviate any pain. Looking back, I know it did work, it did help, and it did get you out of pain. But despite all of the uncertainty at the time, I could see your fight. I saw it in your eyes. I can only imagine the fear and how difficult a decision it was to opt into more radiation, but you didn’t show it. You uttered “let’s do it” and then you winked at me, to let me know that you got this. That is real strength, more powerful than anything I’ve ever seen before. I carry that moment with me every day. It has singlehandedly gotten me through each race I’ve done this year.

You showed me what it really means to be strong. Your strength through brighter and stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. I enter these races to test myself and to be able to call myself strong. But what I have to “endure” is laughable compared to what you dealt with. I voluntarily place myself in a situation (and pay to do it), where I know there is a safety net, where I know there is an end. In reality, I experience a tiny sliver of what you dealt with constantly, without a guaranteed end. So, I owe it to you to honor that sliver of pain. To make the most of it. You showed me that the “pain” I think I feel in a race isn’t real, and it isn’t real by virtue of the fact that it can stop anytime I want it to (all I need to do is stop moving my feet and all the discomfort goes away). How daunting is pain really when you know it will end. It takes true strength to keep fighting knowing your pain might never end, so who am I to stop the moment it gets difficult.

I carry all of your lessons, big and small, with me everyday. A month ago when I was getting an MRI for my broken fingers I stole one of your lines. The tech needed to confirm my name and birthdate, which I gave him, but then in Lew Wiener style I said “you know have everything you need to send me a birthday card this year”. He laughed and told me he’d never heard that before. He even told me his birthday - July 12. Now, every time I go into that doctor’s office, I’m greeted with a warm smile from my new friend, and that makes me think of you. In a month, I’m running the Berlin Marathon. I made a travel plan I think you’d be proud of. You made the most out of every travel opportunity you had. You loved eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner in three different cities and especially loved the 24 layover to see a new country. The last one I remember is Cambodia. So, I’m planning to run the marathon in the morning and then immediately hop on a train to go to Munich for Oktoberfest. Probably not exactly your style, but I thought you’d get a kick out of starting the day with a race and ending it in a beerhall in a different city.

My happy place these past few months has been in your car. When I feel overwhelmed, I sit in your seat and blast E Street Radio. Those are some of the times I feel closest to you - enjoying the same music you did, how you did it, in the car you loved. When songs come on Bruce’s concerts, I try to guess which shows you’ve been to. My favorite part of a song is in Tenth Avenue Freeze Out. The Big Man, Clarence Clemons, in his deep booming voice, has the part you’d always replicate to me “kids you better get your picture”. Even when it’s just me in the car, I do my best impression and remember all the times we were driving and you turned to say that to me.

For the past 4 years you’ve lived by your saying “share your strength”. When people would ask what they could do, you’d tell them to share their strength. You had no use for sympathy, because with sympathy you’d have to take care of the other person. But when you share your strength, others reflect it back. This letter is my attempt at that today, sharing my and your strength so that others can share it back.

Finishing this letter is the hardest part because this is where I’d say I’m so excited to celebrate with you today. If I wasn’t home, I’d instead say the next time I’d see you to give you a big hug. But know that we are celebrating you today. Me, mom, and people all over the world are celebrating today like a holiday. We are recalling your laugh. Your hugs. Your stories. Cherishing the memories we have with you.

I love you and am so unbelievably proud to be your son.

Love,
Zach