The Council Of Dads Part 11

I tugged the girls closer and pulled open my shoulder bag. They reached in and lifted out a small red-and-yellow tablecloth, which I spread onto the wooden planks. They reached in again and retrieved four saucers, four cups, a creamer, and a fractured sugar bowl I had glued together the night before. Finally I retrieved the ultimate accessory.

And just after midday, with Lady Liberty to our left and the Empire State Building to our right, with hundreds of hurriers bustling around us, and for no other reason than we'd reached the end of a long year, we clinked our cups, tilted our kettle, and held a tea party on top of the world.

FOR YEARS I I SUFFERED SUFFERED from a recurring dream. I would be walking, or climbing, or fleeing something. And I would stall. My legs would turn to mush, or get trapped in some quicksand, or bog down in some existential mud. Then I would wake up-exhausted, panting, and scared. from a recurring dream. I would be walking, or climbing, or fleeing something. And I would stall. My legs would turn to mush, or get trapped in some quicksand, or bog down in some existential mud. Then I would wake up-exhausted, panting, and scared.

I never told anybody about my dream. After a while, maybe a decade, I told myself it was probably about ambition, some deep-rooted fear that I might never get to the place I wanted to get.

Then one day, not long before we set out across the Brooklyn Bridge, I realized that I hadn't had the dream since I'd gotten sick. It was a shocking discovery, sort of like losing a relative you didn't exactly love but had grown accustomed to having around. But in my case, the loss was more eerie. As soon as I couldn't walk, I stopped dreaming that I couldn't walk. In the year that I could barely get anywhere, I stopped dreaming that I couldn't get where I wanted to go.

My revelation presented two possibilities. The first is that my body had somehow known all along about the weakness of my legs. Tipped off by some genetic malfunction, my unknowing mind had sent out warning signs that I would someday be stopped short of my dreams.

The other possibility is the more preferable one. I was no longer dissatisfied. Having slowed my pace of life, I was no longer trying to get to a place I wasn't meant to be. The year I couldn't hurry, I stopped trying to hurry someplace else.

Having finally stopped trying to be someplace else, I was finally happy right where I was.

WHEN THE TEA PARTY concluded, I asked the girls whether they would like to continue walking across the length of the bridge, then take a taxi home, or retrace our steps and walk home from here. Eden spoke first. "We want to walk all the way across the bridge concluded, I asked the girls whether they would like to continue walking across the length of the bridge, then take a taxi home, or retrace our steps and walk home from here. Eden spoke first. "We want to walk all the way across the bridge aaand aaand walk back home!" Linda looked at me and winked. "That's our girls!" she said. walk back home!" Linda looked at me and winked. "That's our girls!" she said.

.24.

HUG THE MONSTER

September 1

Dear Tybee and Eden, The last of the sea oats are bending under the weight of late summer and the afternoon sun is just stretching out its amber farewell toward the tidal pools on Tybee beach. Another summer is ending, and with it our time in this briny paradise, the offbeat island that has always embodied for your mother and me the fusion of your two names.

As a writer, I've spent my entire adult life composing words I hoped others might read. I write these words in the deepest hope that you don't read them for a long, long time.

But I write them nonetheless, with the emotions so raw, because I want you to hear them from me.

In your second year of life, you first lit upon words. You forged a friendship with letters and language, and that was a pleasure to watch and a marvel to behold. On your second birthday, your mother and I festooned an inflatable alphabet around our home. The letters didn't stick so well; some were drooping by the time we brought you downstairs in your nightgowns; but Eden took one look at the rainbow of ABC ABCs and exclaimed, "All the letters came to visit!"

The next year, with ballet and fairies consuming your fancies, we hung pink and purple tutus in similar garlands around the house. "All the tutus came to visit!"

A few weeks later, I went for a routine doctor's appointment. That doctor sent me to another doctor, then another, until I eventually learned that I had a very rare, very aggressive illness that suddenly put my life in peril. I sat on a stoop on a Manhattan street corner, put my face in my palms, and wept. A few hours later I came home and lay down in bed. You immediately came sprinting in after me. You looked in the mirror, clasped your hands together, and started whirling in a circle in a homemade dance, then collapsed to the floor, giddy with joy. My heart collapsed with you.

I thought of all the hugs I might not give to you, all the kisses I might not get. I envisioned the broken hearts I might not mend, the tears I might not blot. I imagined the giggles I might not hear, the songs I might not make up, the doubts I might not a.s.suage. I tallied all the pithy daddyisms I might not impose on you so frequently until you finally snickered and rolled your eyes. Try something new every day. Start with the facts, the decisions will make themselves. When all else fails, read the instructions. Try something new every day. Start with the facts, the decisions will make themselves. When all else fails, read the instructions.

I thought of my voice, and what your life might be like without it.

Three days later I awoke before dawn with an idea of how I might help give you that voice. I would reach out to six men, from all pa.s.sages in my life, and ask them to be present through the pa.s.sages in yours. They might whisper to you, sing to you, profess to you, or write to you. They might take you for a ride on a tractor, or take you out back for a talking-to. They might lend you a hand, lift up your chin, or let down your hair. They might simply listen to you.

They would be a swirl of voices I would hang in your life for all time.

"All the daddies came to visit."

And I would call this group of men "The Council of Dads." The men in this circle aren't my only friends. They're not my only mentors, teachers, or guides. They're not my brother, my sister, or my family. They aren't your daddy, I'm afraid.

But they do const.i.tute various sides of me. They are a narrative of my selves.

In the event of my death, they can carry on my life. If I go silent, they can continue to speak for me.

How you use this Council is up to you. You might ask them about me-what I would have been thinking, what I might have said. You might ask them about you-how you make a tricky decision, how you make a dream come true. You might ask them about themselves.

When I invited each of them to join your Council, I sought from each the single lesson that he might bequeath to you now. Their wisdom, a.s.sembled, reads like a psalmbook of living.

Approach the cow Pack your flip-flops Don't see the wall Tend your tadpoles Live the questions Harvest miracles You may understand some of these ideas when you first hear them; others perhaps you may not understand for some time. But they are truths as deep as I know. And I have gathered them, along with like-minded thoughts from my father, my two grandfathers, and various father figures in my life, as well as a few from myself I couldn't resist tossing in (Always learn to juggle on the side of a hill; Take a walk with a turtle), into a handbook of fatherly guidance.

When a.s.sembling this counsel I have been reminded of the great paradox of parenting: Even as we come to feel we can't live without you, our primary job is to prepare you to live without us. Our task, in a sense, is to make ourselves obsolete. As babies, you arrive entirely dependent; we then spend the coming decades trying to make you independent, so you can thrive on your own, without us.

You may face this situation sooner than most, I fear. You will have your mommy, and she, as you surely know, is a Council unto herself. Listen to her and you'll learn truths far deeper than any roomful of men will ever know.

But you might not have your daddy. And where I would have been in your life, a hole will likely be. You may fill that hole over the years with love or grief, with anger or fear, with lollipops or monsters.

All of those are okay.

But whatever you fill the emptiness with, be gentle on yourself. This situation is not your fault. This plight is not your destiny.

The most daring pilots in the world have a motto for how they handle life's greatest tests. The air force teaches its novices that when they face a life-defining challenge, they should not run from their fear. They should embrace it. "Hug the monster," they say. Wrap your arms around your fear, wrestle it into submission, redirect it into a source of resilience and purpose.

Hug the monster, girls. girls.

I can be your arms. Because if you know nothing else about me, know that your daddy loved you. I loved when you climbed on my tummy in the morning and told me that snuggling with Daddy was your favorite time of day. I loved when you snickered at my teasing and groaned at my puns. I loved when you made up songs, played rhyming dictionary, or danced. I especially loved when you curtsied. I even loved when I put you in the crying chair, or raised my voice, or counted "One...two...two and a haaalffff..." haaalffff..."

I loved when I made a big production out of refusing to read to you, or get you a stapler, or give you a snack after school, until you gave me a proper hug and kiss. I loved when you reached for my crutches, when you patted my scar. I loved when you looked frightened in my direction, and when you grabbed my finger during fireworks, after I said, "Squeeze me if you're scared."

You can still do that when I'm gone, you know. Just squeeze your fingers together. I'll feel it wherever I am.

A few weeks after you were born, we held a party to introduce you to our friends. I gave a short toast that night. My closing wish was, "May your first word be adventure adventure and your last word and your last word love love." I can report that the first half of that wish came true. Adventure Adventure was one of the first words you learned and one of the words you loved most during those years. Your little lips would curl around its syllables, capturing all the complexity, wonder, and unknown in its meaning. was one of the first words you learned and one of the words you loved most during those years. Your little lips would curl around its syllables, capturing all the complexity, wonder, and unknown in its meaning.

"We're going on a special adventure," we would say, and your eyes would fill with antic.i.p.ation.

The second half of that wish-"May your last word be love love"-is up to you. And if I've learned anything from my illness, it's that we never know when our last word may come. So I beg of you: Be awash in love every day. That love may come from a friend, a relative, a lover, a child. It may come from all of these, or just one. But if I could leave you with one last bequest: May it always come from each other. Whatever else happens, always comfort your sister.

If nothing else, through each other, you'll always have a connection to your mother and me.

Because if the paradox of being a parent is that we must make ourselves unneeded, the paradox of being a child is that you discover how much you need your parents only after you think you don't. You spend your whole lives making yourself independent. You go forth on your own. And at exactly the moment you stop listening to us, you finally hear what we've been saying all along.

Until then, I'll be waiting. Even if you can't hear me, I'll be whispering in your ear. Even if you can't feel me, I'll be gently pushing you on your own. And even if you can't see me, I'll be holding up my finger for you to squeeze when the monster needs hugging.

Take trips, girls. Take chances. Take off.

And every once in a while, take a walk for me.

Love,

Photograph by Kelly Hike

SAY PLEASE AND THANK YOU

AN ENORMOUS TEAM OF PEOPLE contributed to saving my life. contributed to saving my life.

Dr. Diana Santini gave me the alkaline phosphatase test that launched me on this journey, then pushed me to get the follow-up tests. Dr. Beth Shubin-Stein took over my case and provided invaluable advice and introductions. Dr. John Healey is the most inspiring doctor I know and one of the most compelling people I've ever met. Dr. Robert Maki was extraordinarily generous with advice, ac.u.men, and fellowship through some very dark and difficult months. Dr. Bebak Mehrara is a gentleman and a master surgeon. Dr. Alison Haimes was a daily font of wisdom and advice, and she became an intimate member of our family through her constant presence during this ordeal.

A warm appreciation to the many teams of medical professionals who answered our calls, calmed our nerves, and held our hands. In Dr. Healey's office: Jodi Roth, Matthew Steensma, and Fazel Khan. In Dr. Maki's office: Stephen Layne, Linda Ahn, Elizabeth Rodriguez. In the fifth-floor chemo clinic: Sarah Duncan, Stacy O'Neill, Sara Martinez, Ray Rodriguez, Heather Goettsch, and Karen Gormsmen, among others.

For key support along the way, thank you to Dr. Joe Bender, Dr. Bob Mayer, Dr. Alan Muney, and David Davidoff. And a rousing deep knee bend and short jig on the dance floor to the incomparably sharp Theresa Chiaia and her entire team at the Sports Rehabilitation Department at the Hospital for Special Surgery.

I was deeply touched and comforted by the extraordinary goodness of Clarissa and Edgar Bronfman Jr. We were equally overwhelmed by the compa.s.sion of Belle and Wences Casares, Melissa and Tim Draper, Paul Fribourg, Ann and Jason Green, Amy and John Griffin, and Peter Kellner.

To all the friends and family around the world who sent expressions of love; poems, prayers, and paisley afghans; and dishes for our ca.s.serole club.

To those who offered just the right support at just the right time: Jeanne Ackman, Karen and Bill Ackman, Sunny Bates, Nick Beim, Kimberly Braswell, Justin Castillo, Andy Cowan, Tracey and David Frankel, Caterina Fake, Jan and Gordon Franz, Avner Goren, Diane Galligan and Brendan Hasenstab, Wes Gardenswartz, Lisa Kapp, David Kramer, Corby k.u.mmer, Jane Lear, Lia Levenson and Evan Oppenheimer, Susan Levy, Serge Lippe, Ilene Leff, Andrea Mail, Becca and d.i.c.kie Plofker, Joanna Rees and John Hamm, Gretchen Rubin, Peter Schuck, Daniel Schwartz, Chip Seelig, David Shenk, Ken Shubin Stein, Joe Weisberg, Alexi Worth, and Judy and Bob Wunsch.

To those who saw the pain up close and kept coming back: Laura Benjamin, Karen Lehrman Bloch and Bradley Bloch, Susan Chumsky, Karen Ess.e.x, Lauren Schneider, and Teresa Tritch.

To those who share the journey: Raul Buelvas, Olivia Fox, and Todd Haimes.

Special thanks to Megan Brown, Karen Glimmerveen, Tim Hawkins, Soribel Holguin, Jazie Ingram, and Greg Takoudes.

I am grateful for the many people I work with who drew closer to us during this time: Alan Berger, Helen Churko, Susan Ellingwood, Craig Jacobson, Lynn Goldberg, Beth Middleworth, Brian Pike, Lucy Lepage and Carlton Sedgeley, Roger Triemstra, and Sally Willc.o.x.

My friends and colleagues at HarperCollins expressed extraordinary commitment at the outset of this experience, and nearly every day along the way. I am forever appreciative of Brian Murray, Michael Morrison, and Liate Stehlik for their continued presence and support. Seale Ballenger, Lynn Grady, Tavia Kowalchuk, Shawn Nicholls, Sharyn Rosenblum, Mary Schuck, Danny Goldstein, and Nicole Chismar are treasured colleagues. In twenty years of writing books, I have never worked more closely or had a more trusted and valued partnership with an editor than I have with Henry Ferris.

A special hug for Lisa Gallagher, who believed from the very beginning.

All the Feilers and Rottenbergs were always within earshot and arm's length, and willing to leave their own lives behind to help us cope with ours. I can only hope that the splatters of misery I sometimes spread along the way did not conceal the love I so profoundly experienced.

The six men who appear in this book help form the backbone of my life. In addition to the steady pulse of friendship they shared throughout this journey, they all welcomed my probing eye into the deepest secrets of their lives and allowed me to mine them for my girls. I vow in however many days I have left to try to reach to the standards of humanity, joy, and compa.s.sion they already embody for me and my children.

Linda Rottenberg is the beating heart that informs every word in these pages. She managed during this unimaginable ordeal to conceal her own fear just enough to allow herself to wipe away some of mine. I love discovering nearly every day the magical parts of her being that emerge in our daughters. And I am profoundly comforted that should my Council of Dads ever need to convene for its original purpose, she will guide them with her effortless grace.

Tybee and Eden: This book is for you. I dread the day you will read it, but I trust you know it's true. And I hope that you will always remember the words I would sing to you before you went to sleep-"Daddy-Daddy loves you very, very..." and the word you would whisper back: "Much."

For tips on creating your own Council of Dads or Council of Moms, to share your story and keep the conversation going, or to help find a cure for sarcomas and other rare cancers, please visit brucefeiler.com or councilofdads.com.

About the Author

BRUCE FEILER is the is the New York Times New York Times bestselling author of nine books, including bestselling author of nine books, including Walking the Bible, Abraham Walking the Bible, Abraham, and America's Prophet America's Prophet, as well as the host of the doc.u.mentary series Walking the Bible Walking the Bible on PBS. An award-winning author, journalist, and speaker, Feiler is a graduate of Yale and Cambridge universities. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife, Linda Rottenberg, and their identical twin daughters. on PBS. An award-winning author, journalist, and speaker, Feiler is a graduate of Yale and Cambridge universities. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife, Linda Rottenberg, and their identical twin daughters.