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Remembering Dad

August 13, 2010 By

On another Friday the Thirteenth 73 years ago, my Dad was born.  He shares his birthday with Fidel Castro (who he couldn’t stand) and Alfred Hitchcock (who he greatly admired). Dad’s birthday is always a bittersweet occasion for me. Bitter because I feel sadness that he is no longer with us. Sweet because even though he’s gone, his birthday is a reminder that his life should be celebrated.

I have tremendous admiration for both of my parents. Now that I’m a parent myself, I have an appreciation for what a tough job it is. In a way, my parents had more parenting challenges than I have, simply because they had no idea where their children were coming  from. My brother and I are both adopted, and adoptions were done very differently back then. There was no disclosure, no sharing of information, no opportunity for the birth mother to even meet, let alone choose, the adoptive parents. It was by pure chance, a cosmic roll of the dice, that I ended up with the parents I got.

Fate did well by me. If I had been able to choose my parents, I think I would have chosen the ones I got. I did not appreciate them enough when I was a kid (because what child ever does?) and I would not attempt to claim that my parents were perfect. I can say, however, that if I am a tenth as good a parent as either my Mom or my Dad, then my kids are very lucky. I am fortunate to still have Mom. She may live on the other side of the world to me, but she is still mentor, adviser, critic when she needs to be, friend, confidante, and above all, Mom.

As I think about my Dad, I see snippets of my life played back like a slideshow. Me and Dad at a father-and-daughter square dancing event when I was seven. Going for a ride in his vintage sports car. Watching the Olympics with him when we were both bunged up with colds. Our shared love of reading that generated trips to the library followed by a cup of juice, and as I got older, coffee. The tax returns he did for me each year because I couldn’t figure out how to do them myself.

I made stupid mistakes in my youth. That’s what young people do. Their brains are not wired for wise decisions, which is why they need parents. Dad, being older and infinitely wiser than me, would see the mistakes coming and warn me. Being young and impulsive, I would do something stupid anyway and find myself in the middle of a crisis. Dad would always be there to help me pick up the pieces of my life, and he was kind enough to never say that he’d told me so.

I will never forget the moment when Dad saw his newborn grandson for the first time. He and Mom were exhausted, fresh off the plane from South Africa. They had come from the airport straight to the hospital to see George, who was then just one day old. As I placed the baby into Mom’s arms and then Dad’s, it was like slotting the final piece into a jigsaw puzzle to complete the picture. Grandparenthood fulfilled something in both of them, though it is hard to define exactly what. My sadness at the fact that my boys are growing up without their Granddad is countered by the knowledge that my Dad, for all too brief a time, experienced the joy of being a grandparent.

Dad died almost six years ago, taken from us all too soon by cancer. I choose to believe that he is still around, that from some vantage point, he is watching his grandchildren grow up. I choose to believe that when I participate in races, Dad – who was one of the top marathoners of his day – is running right along with me. I hope he is proud of me, and happy with the job he did as a parent.

Rest in peace, Dad. I love and miss you.
~ Cyril James Jessiman ~
~ 13 August 1937 – 6 December 2004 ~

Filed Under: Bereavement, parenting Tagged With: , , ,
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About Dad

May 19, 2010 By

Unlike some of the people who can run a full marathon in less time than it takes me to run a half-marathon, I was not born with running shoes on my feet.  We didn’t have track and field at my high school although there were a number of other sports.  We took our swimming very seriously, and in the winter I played hockey (lawn hockey – hockey as we know it in North America has never gained a foothold in South Africa, despite some mild efforts).  I started running relatively late in life, when I was 26.

What happened was that I decided to quit smoking.  I had been a smoker for about nine years, and I had been on thirty a day since the age of 23.  My parents used to despair – they had lost family members to cancer and they literally feared for my life.  And the habit was just getting too expensive for me to afford.  The true reason for me quitting, however, was that I woke up one morning and simply got tired of being a smoker.  So I made the decision to knock the habit on the head.  My co-worker Gary, who was himself an avid runner, suggested that my efforts to quit should be accompanied by changes in my lifestyle.  And so I started eating better and I commenced a very gradual running program that Gary provided.  By the time I moved to Canada four years later, the smoking habit was a distant memory, I was in much better shape, and I was hooked on running.

When I had the kids, I stopped running.  No time, no sleep, and a sense of being a bit overwhelmed put a halt to all activity.  For seven years I occasionally tried to get back into it, but there was always a reason for it not to work.  Finally, a year ago, I got the email from the Geneva Centre for Autism, inviting me to run for charity, and just like that, I was back.  All I needed was the right motivation.

Throughout my entire running journey, I have had my Dad with me in some form or another.  Dad was a runner himself – at his prime he was one of the best marathoners in South Africa.  For several years he ranked among the top five marathoners in the country, and although his activity did slow down as he got older, he never lost the passion for it.  When I started running he was thrilled.  He was full of advice and anecdotes, all of which I accepted eagerly.  As I trained for my very first half-marathon in 2001, he followed my training with interest, and when I called him after the race to tell him all about it, his enthusiasm was immense.

Dad was there for one of my races – my first-ever 10K in Toronto.  He and my Mom were over for a visit, and on race-day we all bundled into the car and headed for the start line.  I was telling Dad that I wanted to finish the race in less than an hour; he was giving me advice on how to pace myself.  When I crossed the finish line – in less than an hour – it lifted my heart to see Mom and Dad standing at the finish line cheering for me.

Dad died five years ago, and there is not a day when I don’t miss him.  He was a fantastic father, and for the brief period of time he knew George – who is the reason I run today – he was a fantastic grandfather.  He is still with me when I run – sometimes, when my runs are going well, he wanders off for a bit, probably because he knows I’m doing OK.  But when I am on my long runs and I’m starting to hit the wall, I’ll suddenly feel a boost in my energy and I’ll know that Dad has shown up to help me.

When I run my half-marathon for autism in September, there will be two people in my mind.  George – my beautiful boy, the reason I got back into it.  And Dad, my role model, the person who always gave me endless support and encouragement.

Filed Under: family, running Tagged With: , , , ,
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