Parents often tell their children how proud of them they are. But how often do children tell their parents they are proud of them?
My parents have told me countless times throughout my life they are proud of me. They have been at every major milestone, cheering me on. They were beaming with pride at my high school and college graduations, my wedding, and when they held my newborn daughter in their arms.
My father never misses a chance to tell anyone who will listen that his daughter is a reporter. He brags about all his children (there are five of us). It has become a running joke in the family, but we have thrived on his praise and like most children, love to hear that we have made our parents proud.
But do they know we are proud of them? Looking back over the years, I know I have told my parents thousands of times that I love them, however, I don’t know if I have actually said, ‘I am proud of you.?
It was just over four years ago that my father was having chest pains. A heart catheterization revealed that at the age of 53, Dad had an artery that was 90-percent blocked. The doctors call it a ‘widowmaker,? because if that particular artery had become totally blocked, he would have died. Mom and Dad had quit smoking only a year and a half earlier, and the doctors told us if he had not, he would not be with us.
Angioplasty was performed and a stent was placed in the artery. Dad’s lifestyle changed. He was never what I would consider overweight, but he lost a lot of weight, particularly with his new diet. He no longer ate red meat, eggs, or anything with fat, cholesterol, or partially hydrogenated oils. He was practically saintly, in fact, he was so good about eating chicken, salads, and healthy food that the doctor had to tell him that while his cholesterol levels were the best he’d ever seen, Dad had to have some iron and could even eat pizza a couple times a month.
Besides his diet, Dad became really, really active. He worked out on a treadmill and rowing machine and other fitness equipment. And then he did something really amazing– he started running.
This may not seem so incredible, unless you know that my Dad broke his Achilles tendon more than 20 years ago while playing softball. Well, shredded it like spaghetti is more like it. The doctors told my Dad he would never run again.
But two decades and one heart surgery later, my Dad runs. He ran his first race earlier this year and didn’t tell us, because he was worried he wouldn’t be able to do it. He did. His next race was the Crim in August. He ran 10 miles (and Mom walked 10 miles, yay, Mom!) and we were there. We cheered and clapped for more than two hours for all the competitors, watching some fall, some get sick and witnessing the triumph of the human spirit. We waited at the finish line, looking for our hero and cheered longest and loudest as he finished his race.
Last week, I was there with my Mom to cheer him on again as he ran 13 miles in the Detroit Free Press Half Marathon. We saw him at the nine-mile mark and he even stopped to give us hugs and wait for his friend that he trains with. It was only after the race that I found out he was worried about the race. His biggest fear is not being able to finish and feeling like he had failed. But what I told him is, he could never be a failure. He is the most wonderful husband and father we could ever have.
And Dad? You know I love you, but in case I haven’t told you, I’m proud of you.
I always have been.