While waiting for dinner to be ready, I decided to whip out my camera and shoot a few things around the house; change the pace from the last few weeks where I have been struggling with a pesky case of depression. What I captured with the lens lifted my spirits high enough to compel me return to this ole neglected blog of mine and quickly jot something down. A start is a start, right?
The story is this: My father lost his right hand in a nasty car accident a few years ago. And while we all wailed and sobbed and overall put out a sorry show during the first weeks, the guy was a rock. Tear count from him: zero.
In six months time he made himself with a secondhand (no pun intended) automatic transmission SUV and took up driving once again. He is still seeing customers. He takes down orders with his left hand in ugly but understandable writing. He is still a nuisance while dining and shopping.
What dawned on me is this (don’t fight the lack of context, lesson is simple): My dad will always complain about my choices in life. We come from different worlds. But if he can overcome such a great loss with such an overwhelming success, anything I complain about seems petty in comparison. By keeping that in mind at all times, I think I have one more weapon to fight against my own demons. Besides Prozac, that is.
To you, Dad.