Dad

I’ve felt very uncertain about whether this post was something I wanted to publish on my blog. I’m worried that it may be far too personal to share and worry it might not be appropriate. It’s about my father. My dad died last week suddenly at the age of 74. I hate so much that he is gone and that perhaps I didn’t fully appreciate everything about him before he was gone.

My father disagreed with me most of the time on politics, but he really did love a good discussion. He was very enthusiastic about this little blog exercise I have going and was very supportive. I’ve found writing to be a very interesting experience these past two months “blogging,” and I think putting words down on (virtual) paper is going to be a core piece of learning to cope with our loss. I certainly don’t think it will stop at this post, but the words I wrote and spoke at his memorial were my best effort at a tribute to my dad. I’m not certain why I’m holding back on whether to share them. I spoke them to a room full of many strangers, and I put them on the blog here in hopes that someone might learn something about the great man that was my father. I post it here because I love him so much.

My talk (you’ll just have to imagine me choking up three or four times….)

Over the past few days I have been reflecting on my father’s life and the experiences that shaped it. What has occurred to me more and more is that while you might not be able to tell at first look he was actually a complex man with many sides to his personality.

One of my favorite sides of my father that I would like to share with you was who we always referred to as “Dr. Ditson.” If you asked him about how hospitals and doctors had affected his life, he probably would tell you story after story of how the times he had been in the hospital with one surgery or another and how incredibly miserable the places were. But I think this piece of my dad that I admired so much was also shaped by hospitals.

If you were ever in the hospital and were confused about the things being done to you by poking and prodding by the medical profession, you could not have any stronger a set of advocates than Bob and Joan Ditson. If there is anything I’ve learned from my parents about medicine over the years it is that just because someone is a doctor, (my dad’s words) it sure as hell doesn’t make him smarter than you. Doctors and nurses are good people that are there to be a resource for you- but as my father would say, you need to “watch them like a hawk.” Your good health is yours and your family’s responsibility.

I’m pretty sure I have never seen my father be more on a mission than when he was taking care of my mother after her stroke. In the fall of 1989 my mother had a pretty severe stroke. She has been a strong woman my entire life but I am positive she could not have pushed through and gotten to where she is today with out the absolute singular focus of my father. Outside activities were dropped, friends were appreciated, but secondary, and the sole focus of his life became my mother’s welfare.

Everyone loved the image of my father with his shorts, chamois cloth shirt, his wool hat, and wool socks, and his collection of utility belt items clipped to his hip. But when something important needed to be done or a doctor needed to be pulled into line, my dad would assume his Dr. Ditson persona – dark blue suit, his red “power” tie, and his ever-present clipboard full of questions.

My father spent three years in the hospital in the early 1950s, mostly alone, with no similar advocate of his own. His mother lived far away, and could not visit often because of money. There is no question that those difficult years shaped the rest of his life. With my mother in the hospital, this time was different. She had a champion. With my dad on the job, doctors returned calls, they answered questions, and she received the right medications and treatments on time.

If there was anything that my father’s hospital experience built in him it was a deep and profound understanding of pain and hurt. Because of that my father built the gift of compassion and of empathy. Over the 13 plus years my parents ran the motel there is story after story after story after story….of complete strangers sitting in that motel office with my father and my mother—pouring their hearts out about their struggles and their pain for hours at a time. People just don’t do that with strangers unless they detect real compassion and caring in a person. And my father had that.

My dad was really supposed to die in back in the 1950s. He had Ulcerative Colitis, which lead to three major surgeries which were at the time still not considered to be routine. When he was leaving the hospital the doctor basically told him that the results of the disease meant he should limit his hopes for life, he said that his highest aspiration might be as a hospital orderly. The doctor told him this. If that probably well-intentioned, but short-sighted doctor were here today I’d ask him to take a look at the pictures of my dad we have here today. They’re pictures of a successful 30-year professional, a second-career business proprietor, and a loving husband, father, and grandfather.

My mother and my daughter and I are all very thankful that Bob Ditson decided to endure for fifty plus more years. We are very thankful for the time we had with him and want to thank you all for being here as our friends.