Why Do You Want to Fight?

My dad used to cheerfully wake me up Saturday mornings collecting garbage from my room. He’d say, rustling the wastebasket by my desk, “Wake up, sleepyhead! It’s 8:00 am!”

He was a morning person.

It was annoying.

But decades later, I would be the one waking my father up when I visited him at his nursing home. He would open his deep brown eyes, and then I would see that familiar crooked grin.

Dad was there because of a head injury he had after falling on ice in his driveway. He was borderline diabetic and had high blood pressure, but also so strong that it seemed like he’d go on forever.

When we learned that he was dying after six years at the nursing home, a doctor said to him, “Norman, do you understand that you are going to die?” And then the doctor added, “I am going to repeat myself because Daughter #1 tells me that you don’t always remember everything.”

He then shared details about organs shutting down. And then he said, “Questions?” He offered to give me, Daughter #2, a hug, which I declined.

After he left the room, I started to cry. And then my dad started to cry. He never cried. The only time I ever saw him cry is when my mother died.

He whispered, “I don’t want to die! I’m only 80!”

I laughed.

“Dad, you’re almost 85,” I said.

And he said, “But I wanted to live to be 100!”

Most days, we would find him with the TV on. But he slept a lot, so it was more like the TV was watching him.

One Saturday, I remember he slept through an entire Rocky marathon. When I arrived on Sunday to visit him, Rocky II was on again. Together, we watched the moment when Rocky pulls himself up on the ropes to become heavyweight champion of the world.

Why do you wanna fight, Rocky?

Because I can’t sing or dance.

My dad wanted us to have the most magnificent lives. He wanted us to do something remarkable.

I remember the smell of fresh-cut sawdust off his table saw in our basement. How he could take any antique scrap of something and convert it into something useful. He rebuilt cars. He could identify almost any WWII aircraft. And he gave us everything he could, everything we needed.

Whenever I’m faltering, tired from too many deadlines or pressures, I ask myself, “Why do you want to fight, Kellie?”

Because my dad taught me how.

He died within a week or two of that doctor’s proclamation. I was by his side holding his hand when he drifted away. I still remember what that was like, holding his strong paw in mine when he was on his way out. It leaves a mark on you when that happens. When you see a soul transition to some other form.

Why do you want to give this life your all?

What if you pay real attention to every living, waking moment you have in this crazy thing we call life?

What is here for you?