In January I lost my father. So, in honor of Father's Day, I offer the
following tribute to my Dad, Richard Loderhose, my hero.
My right hand gently
caressed my Dad's shoulder. He lay
unresponsive in the hospital bed Mom had set up in the TV room, his favorite room
in the house. Mom, sitting across the
bed from me, gripped Dad's hand ever so tightly like it was part of her own body. My older siblings flanked her on both sides
and tears flowed freely down their sad, drawn faces.
"This is
it," I contemplated. "After
this day, I will no longer have an earthly father."
The thought
clanged my inner being all the way to my soul.
After sitting up with him all night we sensed his time grew near. My Dad meant so much to me. He always had. And, after a courageous four-year battle with
cancer, the insidious disease finally caught up with him ravaging his body. Now his breathing grew quite shallow, his
closed eyes sunk further in their sockets and his cheeks hollowed and faded in
color. He looked so emaciated, totally
opposite from the strong vibrant man I remembered.
As a child, many
evenings were spent in our front yard playing football or softball. The neighborhood kids were always ecstatic when
Dad eagerly joined our game. Athletically
he always performed well and strong. One
day Dad played quarterback while I trailed him as halfback. He turned and stuffed the ball into my gut then
blocked for me. But the oncoming defense
consisted of boys much older than me.
They were huge and I was tiny.
Thinking my short life was over I contemplated retreat when Dad suddenly
plucked me from the ground as if he were uprooting a tree. He carried me like I was the football and
broke through the wall of defenders. We
scored a touchdown, thus winning the game.
Dad was always
there for me, no matter my age or circumstance.
When times were tough with a girlfriend or any other all-consuming teenage
life catastrophe, he fearlessly jumped in and took me steelhead fishing, skeet
shooting or jackrabbit hunting where we could talk. Tromping over the desert hills and returning
home with the strong herbal scent of sagebrush permeating my jeans proved just
the panacea I needed. To this day the
aroma of sage reminds me of Dad and his special love for me. He freely gave me his most precious
commodity, his time.
Men like my father
quietly plodded through daily life loving his wife and kids dearly, and making
sure those he came in contact with were treated with respect and never in want
of necessities. He will always be my hero.
In 2009, he was
diagnosed with cancer. He endured sickening
chemo treatments, painful radiation burns and numerous involved surgeries. But he never complained, stating he would
beat this disease. He nearly did. His last four years were steeped in pain, but
he endured each agonizing step with an encouraging smile and the strong hope
that someday he would be cancer-free.
Dad's breathing
grew irregular. He struggled with one final
gasp then released a long, slow exhalation.
He was gone. I tightened my grip
on his shoulder. My older brother and
sister wept telling Dad how much they loved him. Mom cried quietly, gripping Dad's lifeless
hand harder.
"I'm so
sorry," she whimpered, "I couldn't help you beat this. Please forgive me."
Tears streamed
down my cheeks. I bent over and kissed
my Dad's forehead.
"Until we meet again, Dad," I whispered. "I will never forget you."
