Unspoken Love

My favorite definition of epidemiology is that it is the story of human suffering with the tears wiped away.  I am an epidemiologist.  I deal with numbers, usually large numbers, like thousands of deaths, or their derived abstractions, such as death rates per a hypothetical 100,000 people or relative risks.  Such abstractions can help us understand the threads between many stories, the reasons why death happens as it does and when, but behind each number are a lot of tears.

One story is my father.  He died in Indiana yesterday.   Over the several days before his death I waited outside the Fort Wayne VA Hospital ICU with my brothers and sisters, sharing our tears.  He was almost 91.  After high school he jumped onto a bomber and flew missions between England and Germany.  Then he came home, never talked about it much, developed a firm handshake, sold insurance, and raised us kids. 

None of us ever got hugged or kissed much by Dad.  I do not think he ever specifically said that he loved me.  He was not that sort of man.  He also never liked being told "have a nice day" by store clerks.  But he did love people and I know that he loved me.  I always loved him too.  I never said that to him, and even now I am not sorry we did not directly speak of that.   

Though Dad could not speak over the last week, he knew he was dying. When your five children, most of whom live in other states, are standing around your bed and wiping their tears while wiping your forehead, a man who doesn’t hug much apart from firm handshakes would know.  I am just glad he also knew that I knew that we deeply wanted each other to have nice days.