Kate Fagan - All the Colors Came Out: A Father, a Daughter, and a Lifetime of Lessons

M y grandson, Henry, with his impish grin and gorgeous blue-gray eyes, has just morphed into a heartbroken banshee. Im not even sure whats happened. Sounds like his younger sister Frankie might have taken a bite of his granola bar. Or maybe she stole a Pokmon card out of his deck. There is no identifying whats caused this precipitous tumble to the depths of despair. A wailing, drawn-out Nana, its not fair punctuates his sobs. Oh, Henry. I lock eyes with my son-in-law, Mike. About this fair thing. One lesson you need to learn at an early age is that lifes not fair. He continues crying, ignoring this relevant and well-timed pearl of wisdom offered from grandmother to seven-year-old.

My real thought in the moment: Whats not fair, Henry, is that your grandfather isnt here to chuckle at your meltdown, tell you its not worth crying about, and then distract you with a game of HORSE.

That thought lives alongside others that pop up at random moments. Its not fair that Chris doesnt get to enjoy the house at Lake George that we finally splurged on. That Chris doesnt get to be there as we celebrate Frankies fourth birthday, and he cant rib her for changing into three different outfits just because thats what she does every day. That Chris didnt get to see Henry make those baskets during first-grade rec nights and then look over at his mom and dad with gap-toothed smile and unabashed pride. That its me who takes him aside and tells him to always remember rule No. 1: Dont tell people how good you are. Show them.

But those are the thoughts I have when the anger surfaces, along with the cold, stark knowledge of how Chris suffered with ALS. That rage lives alongside my awe at the dignity and humor with which he endured it.

The other thoughts I have focus on fairnesss first cousin (or is it a sibling?): luck. While you could say we got a heavy dose of bad luck, and that is undeniable, my heart tends toward celebrating the abundance of luck in our lives, as a couple and as a family. Chris might frown on this, because like many athletes he wasnt a big believer in luck, but hell have to deal with it.

He loved lists, so Ill come up with one here (there will be more):

1. Luck
2. Fate
3. Kismet
4. Serendipity
5. Destiny
6. Fortune
7. Karma

Isnt it mind-boggling how much beauty and havoc these right time/right place situations, in tandem with our free will, can produce in all our lives? Im not sure which was at play when I went to a mixer at Theta Chi my third night as a freshman at Colgate University, but it led to being asked to dance by a big, scary-looking guy with a Fu Manchu mustache and a clearly amateur bowl haircut. I guess he found my Rhode Island accent and Ann & Hope blouse alluring. I do remember that I got off the dance floor as soon as I could. We just didnt seem destined for much of anything, this big lug and me. I felt intimidated and uncomfortable, and we barely managed to make eye contact or even dance through the entirety of Brandy (Youre a Fine Girl). A year and a half later I began to realize that we were destined. It was a sharp turn: from seeing him as a big, scary-looking stranger to appreciating the gentle but powerful forward on the basketball team. (My financial aid job was as a twelve-hour-per-week assistant to the basketball coach, and one of Chriss jobs was to help the team win.) I started always keeping an eye out for him, even while we dated other people.

I dont remember the exact moment that translated to Do you wanna go on a date? in January of 1976. I do remember the fun we had on that first date, the easiness of the drive from Hamilton, New York, to Auburn along Route 20 to go visit an admired assistant coach who had moved on. It was as we were approaching a major hill that he delivered a bombshell I recall to this day. Guess what theyre saying is bad for you? No idea, what? Sugar. No way! Yup, the life-altering moments that stick with you.

There was never a proposal in the classic sense. As a matter of fact, I was pretty much the one who proposed, in a letter written on purple stationery with pink and white flowers at the top. I must have been choosing my words carefully if I looked at the letter long enough to have the design seared into my memory. The pertinent paragraph started along the lines of So, do you think we should get married? It was the summer before my senior year. I was doing my summer term and he was a counselor at a camp in the Berkshires before coming back to be a graduate assistant coach for the basketball team. We were both twenty-one. In other words, the old days.

Skipping a lot of our dating experience and scooting right back to our friend luck, I offer the reasons why, at such a tender age, I thought we could make a good couple for the long haul.

1. I liked him.
2. I liked his big family. We had similar Catholic, lower-middle-class backgrounds.
3. He was an athlete (a huge factor, since my entire childhood was marinated in Boston Red Sox baseball and Providence College Friars basketball fandom).
4. He treated his mother with respect.
5. He was funny.
6. He was smart.
7. He had straight hair, so if we had girls, maybe they wouldnt struggle with curly, frizzy hair like I did (yes, this was an actual thought in my head, and we did have girls, who should thank me to this day for my foresight).

I think I loved Chris when I was twenty-one. What exactly is love at that untested, early age? Did I really know? Probably not. I know I did as we aged and struggled together. And yet, still, thats a pretty good list.

Our life as a couple was a solid one. We cruised along and hit a variety of speed bumps. Some we approached with caution so that the impact was minimal. Some we careened over at the wrong angle, and it felt like we might just fall apart. But we didnt. We never let it spiral out of control and always came back to each other and to the long view. When it was all over, didnt we want to look back on what wed created and not what wed let go?