My Daddy was my hero – a real-life superhero! He was a sold-out family man. Mother and he were happily married 65 years when she passed. He was strong, dependable, and could fix anything. He was my best friend - quiet and steady – a man of few words, but when de did speak, I stopped and listened. 

Looking back, I believe I fell in love with my husband, Frank, while he accompanied Daddy on a walk across treasured family land. Having a sense of what this land meant to my Daddy and our close relationship, Frank chose this setting to ask Daddy’s permission for my hand in marriage. He gave Frank permission, but again, only with the clarity of hindsight, do I know it had to be a difficult decision for him for two reasons: (a) I was his only daughter and (b) Frank’s dream was to be an Army Ranger, which Daddy knew would take us far away from home over the course of Frank’s career.  Even with all the time we’d shared together, it seemed to never be enough.  

Years passed. I was home for a visit from our deployment in the Middle East. 

I knew, by then, that words were powerful conduits through which we convey meaning and emotion — I just never knew how powerful or how deeply embedded our words or emotions can be. We were sitting together at the kitchen table (Mother had passed away) looking through some old family albums, when we came upon a baby portrait of my sister, Billie Wanda, their first-born child, who died suddenly and unexpectedly at 10 months old. Mother was only 18 years old…unprepared for such a crippling loss. 

Throughout my growing up years, I was aware of how, for the remainder of her life, mother grieved and anguished over this monumental tragedy; but back then, our “Greatest Generation” folks (who had persevered through WWII) did not seek grief counseling or psychiatric help for fear of appearing weak, or even worse, unstable. 

What I was totally unaware of was the depth of Daddy’s suffering all these years. As he picked up the picture of his beloved Billie Wanda, he began talking about her as if it were yesterday. He told me how she’d abruptly developed a high fever and they called the doctor for a house call. He stopped by that evening, checked the baby, prescribed medicine, assured them she should be a lot better by morning, and then went on his way. Daddy said by 2:00 in the morning, they awakened to her labored breathing. He again called the doctor, who said he’d meet them at the emergency entrance of the local hospital. She died in Daddy’s arms as they entered the hospital.

Daddy wept. This was the first time I’d ever been told how this story unfolded. It was the first and only time I’d ever seen my Daddy sob as if his heart could break all over again. 

It was the first time I asked myself, “What wounds do we hold so sacred that we never reveal the searing depth of their pain - even to those closest to us…and at what cost?   

- Dr. Dorothy

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