Mom & Dad, back when I was just a twinkle in their eye
It has been a week of winter storms here in Northern California this week- hailing, winds blowing, lightning snapping trees, thunder shaking the very foundation beneath us. It seems only fitting, given that it is the four year anniversary of my Perfect Storm. Four years ago today, my beloved father left this earth for a better place, and although he said goodbye with total peace, those of us who loved him found ourselves bleeding from the gaping hole he left in our lives. My daughter had just been born two weeks earlier via C-section. My healthy young brother, who had flown out to say goodbye, landed in the hospital in full-blown liver failure and missed being at the bedside when Dad breathed his last breath. My 16-year old dog died without me. And so I found myself like Dorothy in the tornado, spinning in circles and landing someplace completely different than where I started. My Perfect Storm began the personal transformation that launched me onto the path I walk today.
Four years is a long time. It’s how long it took me to finish college. Medical school lasted four years. Residency- another four years. My first marriage lasted four years. There seems to be a theme in my life around the four year mark- and here I am. Four years after my Perfect Storm, looking back, remembering Dad.
Dad, crying at my wedding
I remember how he built five-story high radio towers on every home my family ever owned so he could talk to strangers in South America on ham radios at no cost. (Skype would surely blow him away). I remember how he bought Mom a pregnant cow on their anniversary (a big step up from the year he gave her an oil can). I remember how he loved to hang out by the barbecue grill and make small talk with everyone as they waited from their ribs. But most of all, I remember his ginormous heart, the one that paid for multiple kids who weren’t his to finish college, the one that tithed to his church his whole life, not because he had to, but because he believed. I remember how he would pick up the phone when Mom and I talked for hours. He never had much to say, but he didn’t want to miss a word. I remember how my physician father, who never pressured me to follow in his footsteps, stood beside me when I graduated from medical school, how he passed the torch and said, “Now YOU’RE Dr. Rankin.” I remember how we always said goodbye (“I love you Dad.” “I love you too, baby.”) I remember how he hobbled me down the aisle at my wedding, using the cane he needed to help him overcome multiple sclerosis from the time he was my age. I remember how Dad never let his handicap keep him from lurching down a hiking trail or stumbling down a mountain on skis. I remember how he never got upset at what he couldn’t do. Instead, he rejoiced in what was possible.
Dad and me at my med school graduation
I’ll never forget how I let Dad down, two divorces later. I know he wanted me to have what he and Mom had- 40 years of faithful companionship. But he never made me feel like a failure. Instead, when he heard I would no longer be able to use my ex-husband’s car to transport my art, he sent me an old beater truck as my new art-mobile. He wanted to drive it to me, cross-country, on a Thelma & Louise adventure of his own with a trusted friend, but Mom put the kibbutz on that idea (two old guys in a beater truck for 1000’s of miles? She was thinking- NO.)
I’ll never forget how, when he was dying of a brain tumor, he waited to die until my baby was born, so he could hold her, and we could tell Siena that her Papa loved her so much that he waited for her. I’ll never forget the day he asked if he could leave this earth, the day I wanted to say no but had to say yes. I’ll never forget my mother, throwing herself across his still-warm body, crying, “David, I love the way you died.”
I’ll never forget…
Mommy remembers working side by side with Dad to keep their Georgia farm running, marveling at the progress a hard day of manual labor brought. She remembers Rummikub championships that would go on for weeks. Scores were usually tied- but nobody much cared who won. She remembers watching Dad and I walking down the street when we were in Indian Princess together- he was Big Acorn. I was Little Squirrel. She remembers finding Dad pinned under a tractor and how she was somehow able to lift the tractor off him as if it was a feather. She remembers how she dressed him up for Halloween in my sister Keli’s gymnastics outfit with a hairband, leotard, and tights. He could barely breathe (and you can imagine that his costume didn’t leave much to the imagination, if you know what I mean…) But he was a good sport about the whole thing.
Mom & Dad at the BBQ grill, where you could always find Dad licking his chops
She remembers 22-year old Dad taking her to Bok Tower in Florida, where he waited until the chimes went off at 2 o’clock so he could propose. He had tried to propose once before, but a coral snake scared him out of it. But her favorite memory (she had a hard time narrowing it down after 40 years together) was right after I was born, when he was a young doctor, who snuck into the room, against hospital policy, to nuzzle me to his cheek. When the charge nurse kicked him out of the room, he leaned into my mother and said, “It was worth it.”
Mom, Dad, and Me!
And so it was. It was all worth it. Every peal of laughter. Every tear. Every swollen moment of love. Every loss. Even with the pain, it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. And so- here we are, four years later, the end of another cycle in my life- the beginning of a new one.
It’s hard to say that a loss so tragic could ever have a silver lining. And yet, like every storm cloud, it has. Four years ago, when I lost my father, I was sleeping through my life. Losing Dad woke me up. Now, four years later, everything has shifted. My life was so dramatically disrupted that I could no longer stay asleep. The loss and pain became action that brought my life to a whole new level of joy, authenticity, and meaning. It took pain for me to find my purpose.
The whole Rankin family
And now I sit in the middle of another Perfect Storm, listening to the hail hit the roof, the wind howl in the trees, the rain patter. And yet, I know the sun will come out again, just as it has in my life since four years ago. Four years ago, I thought I might never feel joy again, that I might never heal my broken heart, that my light might never shine again. What I didn’t know then is that these cracks in our lives are what lets the light shine through.
I love you, Dad. I will miss you always. But I know you are with me still, my angel- just as you have always been.
Have you lost someone you love? Share your memories with us, Pinkies. Did you know Dad? Even better- help me remember….
Heavenly hugs,
Lissa
Tags: David Rankin, eulogy, perfect storm, tribute
Hi
I follow you on twitter and something drew me to read your blog. It is a beautiful account of your father and moved me.
My dad also died with such acceptance and peace it was “beautiful” if one can use such a word. My mother also, in her sleep. Dad and mum come occasionally in my dreams and I love the thought that they may be just behind a veil, where I cant see them, but perhaps they can see me and still be involved in my life.
I use one of my blessings books to write all the happy gorgeous memories of my mother, and asked my brother to fill in his memories between the pages. We can now share that with our children so they may know the lady they didnt meet in all her warmth and things we loved about her. They were lucky enough to have a relationship with their grandad, but one day I will complete one for him . . the memories of his wonderful wise words never fade
I feel entirely honoured I was drawn to your blog this morning.
Lissa,
What a beautiful memoir of your father and family! Your were so blessed to have so many treasured moments with your father. Your post brought tears to my eyes. As I read it I thought about the pain you must of went through losing your father and I also thought about the pain that I felt reading it because, I do not have a relationship with my father. My memories of my father are quite few and far between. Growing up he was always gone, and while my mother was pregnant with me he had an affair with a prostitute. I’ve been in contact with him over the years but there is no bond.
I am so thankful that you had such a strong bond with your father, I am proud of how you have grown since his death. You are a strong light and you are definitely shining your brightest!!
Luv you!
Heather Shaw
Very Sweet tribute…LOve LOVeS LOVe
XOOXXO
That took my breath away! Thank you for sharing your father’s story and legacy with us all. How blessed to have shared time on Earth with such a man. While I can feel how you all miss him – how fortunate to have such wonderful memories to share with the next generation. Beautifully written.
Blessings
Sharon D.
Lissa-
This is such a gorgeous tribute to your dad. I feel like I really got to meet him through your words and experience his essence. What a wonderful, joyful, fun, quietly strong, loving man he was. I can sense his pride in you just through your stories.
Your Pink Mojoful life honors him and I know he is beaming with pride about you, your life, your family, your talents and your contributions to the world.
Reading this make me realize how beautiful it is to list favorite attributes and anecdotes about those we love and how I don’t have to wait until someone is gone to do it. Thank you for the inspiration to shower those I love with appreciation. I think I’ll start with my dad.
Thank you for choosing the path of waking up after your perfect storm rather than giving up or going into hiding. It takes courage to choose joy and find your purpose through pain. As far as taking loss and pain and turning it into action and joy, thanks for showing us how it’s done!
“Life’s not about waiting for the storms to pass…
It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”
~Vivian Greene
Sending you a big pink hug today.
To silver linings and dancing in the rain,
Danielle
Lissa…
You are such a talented writer – your dad would be proud! He was one of those people whose friendship unalterably changes your life. I remember as much about his attitude and spirit as his physical appearance – yet it’s that big smile of his that stands out in my memory.
As I remember your dad, I recall his involvement in choir….
One year, when we were doing a musical (Easter, I think), the choir was moving a lot on stage, miking was a challenge to say the least, and the orchestrations we were using had a wide variety of dynamic levels. We had to somehow make the vocals clear without losing the “choreography” (that title being used with much reservation). So, Angela and I came up with the idea of having “pit group” of vocalists – 6 people (SSATTB)that would be seated in the orchestra “pit” on handheld mics throughout the show.
Of course, your dad was the perfect choir for bass, but I questioned whether he would be willing to be seated for the musical rather than onstage engaging all the movements required. Ha! Not only did he consent, but in musicals thereafter, one of his first questions was, “will there be a plus-6 group for this one?” His willing spirit to help “make things work” was a testament to his attitude in life. There was no presumptuousness, but always an eagerness to help others succeed. Dr. Dave was awesome!
Thank you for sharing your heart with us.
Love ya….
Charles
A tweet drew me to read this and I’m glad I followed that click. It is a beautiful tribute to your Dad, your Mom and you. I loved that you cared as tenderly for your Dad as he did for you. I loved that you shared those intimate insights into your parents lives and I love that you celebrate his life!
Your daughter is blessed to have a Mom like you!
Oh Lissa, I am bawling my eyes out after reading this ( well actually all through it). I am crying for a variety of reasons. The main one is that it is so moving to read your loving tribute to a man who sounds like an extraordinary father, doctor, husband and human being. Somewhere he knows you have written this. It is so filled with love and admiration and thrills me to know that there are fathers like yours in the world.
That’s the other reason I am crying. I love my father, who died in 1992 but he was nowhere near the father you had. In fact, almost the opposite. I wish so much my father had been like yours and I search always for the things I love and appreciated about him. The one thing he gave me was my curiosity. He never said no to a question and if he did not know the answer, he always had a book somewhere about the subject. He encouraged my huge interest in learning. Then he let me down when I really needed him and left me to fend for myself at the age of 16. He was a deeply flawed man but I loved him nonetheless.
I love that your father was always there, at your wedding, at your graduation, involved in your life. It gives me hope for the world and for human relationships. Thank you for sharing it.
Thank you so much, dear Pinkie loved ones.
I know how blessed I was to have a father like Dad and a mother like Mom. (In fact, at Siena’s birthday party this past weekend, my friends met my mother and said, “No wonder you are who you are!”
It’s heartbreaking that there aren’t more fathers like Dad out there in the world. We all deserve to have a Dave Rankin for a father. What blows me away is the resilience people have to grow into beautiful human beings, even in the absence of such parenting. I got lucky. My parents made it easy for me to grow into the person I”m still trying to become (and Mom is still here to support my journey).
And yet, losing flawed parents hurts no less. We imprint upon these beings in our lives, the ones who gave us life. We share their DNA. They shape who we become. Honoring them is- in a way- honoring ourselves. Thank you all for sharing your blessings, your memories, and your truth.
Here’s to the angels that surround us always…
(and Dad- thank you. How did I get so blessed?)
Dad was exactly what you described but way more then words can ever fully explain to those who never met him…..I never knew i could feel love like i had for him nor did i know i could feel pain like the day he held my hand while taking his last breath. He loved all of us kids deeply and we all knew it in our own ways….i love that he had separate relationships with all of us allowing us to each feel like his favorite
….Im with you today Big Sis im hugging you from the inside since i cant be there to hug you on the outside…I LOVE YOU….thanks for sharing about dad today!!!
Keli,
I love you too- and just so you know- you need not call yourself an Aspiring Pinkster. You’re a Pink Goddess, little sis- OWN IT.
Yes, Dad was special. He lived from the heart and was an inspiration to all of us. I think you got the very best of him. When I was little, he was a workaholic and I think he regretted the time he missed with me and Chris. I think he vowed not to miss a thing by the time you were in his life nine years later.
I’m with you too, love. Hugging, loving, crying, knowing- that we are all in this together. That we are Dad’s legacy. That because we exist, he will live on….
xoxoxoxo
Lissa
You KNOW I’m crying here. And for joy as well as sadness. Joy that his spirit is so full in your heart, and for memories, and sadness because when a spirit is so strong in our lives, so giving and loving, the absence of the physical comfort his hug can bring is all the more greatly missed.
I’m so grateful for your father’s life and path beyond. The fact that he was able to give you the gift of “awakening” is evident on this post, the people who were drawn here to read it needed him as much as you did in their own ways. He is still giving to the world through you.
I miss my father, too. His life and passing were not nearly so peaceful, but he loved me and he gave me that. In the end, it is all I needed to build a life I like to think he would have grown proud of.
I’m here with you in your sadness today, and in your joy when it floods back into your heart after the storms have passed. We all are.
Love, Love, Love to you
~Dana
Lissa – quick note of acknowledgment as I’m literally out the door in retreat type Leadership…
I didn’t read word for word yet-
But a picture is worth a thousand words.
I See YOU ….
Thinking of you
and Trish –
Big Hug/Hold -
Debbie
My dear Lissa:
Such poignancy! How exquisitely you have risen from your own ashes and given the world your amazing energy, profound insights and leadership. What you give to your friends, patients and readers is verging on miraculous. Your heart is open for all to see and what a wonderful vision you share so freely and with grace.
Though I never knew him, I know from your words now what a man he was – a true father, lover, and lover of life, and an inspiration to not just you and your family, but obviously a legion of friends. It is men like this who hopefully inspire others of his gender to be more.
I recall so clearly working with you and your mother on this exquisite memorial, and it meant SO much to me in the process. I am touched constantly by our friendship and connection, Lissa, and in my eyes, you are a saint.
And as Debbie said: I see YOU!
Love from Big Sur
Toby
Such a lovely tribute to such a LOVE of a man! Tears rolled down my face as I read it and reflected on my greatest loss.
My dear, sweet dog, friend and companion of 10 years, Zoe, died last year.
I was so grateful that I had just recently read Jill Bolte Taylor’s book My Stroke of Insight. She writes about how it was hard for her to choose to recover her lost brain function after her stroke because she found that “living” in her right hemisphere – the place where you *know* all is well and you are one with the universe and there is no death for this immense spirit that has just chosen to manifest in a fluid-filled sack for a short time – was so ecstatic.
I am deeply sorry that I won’t get to be with Zoe in her physical forms again, but I am truly glad to know that she is no longer in pain and I take great comfort in knowing that she and your dad are having an ecstatic experience as non-physical spirit. They are with us always.
Dear Pinkies,
Your words have touched my heart and even greater, my spirit. It has been a tearful, reflective day with joys at the wonderful memories he left for us and pain at how much I still miss him. Lissa and I did a small ceremony at Muir Beach, hiking in the rain down the steep slope to the angry sea( it’s rained her for about 10 days now). It was the perfect backdrop for our ceremony. As we built an altar out of stones, read words of remembrance and mingled our tears I could feel his presence and his approval. We know!!! we were blessed with a wonderful man for a father and husband and the biggest blessing is he knew we knew. We told him so before he was dying and then again, time and again when he was leaving us. I wish for everyone a father who cares, spends quality time and shows their sons and daughters the way to be sensitive human beings.
Thank you all for you touching comments. It is an inspiring way to end this day of remembrance we call David’s Angel Day.
Love, Trish
Wow, Pinkies. What a day.
I feel blessed to know that you all get it, that we all hurt, that we all love deeply enough to lose someone, that we are all connected, that we are never alone.
With so much love,
Lissa
What a beautiful story! I loved reading this. Your Dad’s eyes look so much like mine. I understand so much of your story. Thank you for sharing this!
Lissa – One of my memories of your dad that blessed my life (I have a number of them!) was when we went to Israel together. People said he would be very limited in a wheelchair – like so many other times, he proved them wrong. His heart, his enthusiasm, his inquisiveness, his determination, and his and your mom’s presence made it one of my favorite trips. Your dad was one of thwe blessings in my life.
Be blessed yourself,
John Hicks
David was indeed an extraordinary man. I remember him singing in the “Plus 6″ group. I also remember one year when he did so with an earpiece so he could keep updated on some sports score (probably the Magic). And yes, he would have loved Skype. We always called him Gizmo because he loved all that techie stuff. I have known your mom & dad since they were in college and I was blessed to connect with them again many years later in Orlando. There are many special things about both of them I could share, but what I remember most about your father is how much he loved and enjoyed his family & friends….and the way his whole face became radiant when it broke into one of those beautiful smiles. I miss that smile! I’m sure he is lighting up heaven with that smile as he watches over you all with great pride.
It must have taken alot of courage for you to share your wounded heart with others. But as I have learned as well, it is a healing process. My only son Derrick was murdered a year ago in Detroit on Martin Luther King Day. At the young age of 26, he was shot in the chest and robbed in his car. Unfortunately, the murderer has gotten away with it along with 75% of unsolved homicides in Detroit. Quite the contrary to the peaceful message Martin Luther was trying to extend. I remember the excrutiatingly painful moment of identifying his body and like your mother, grasping on and still feeling the warmth of his body. It is so hard to let go of the vivid, unpleasant circumstances, but hopefully sharing them with others like you, who have been through the pain of loss, can we all begin to help each other heal. After Derrick’s death I feel like I have lost my identity. My purpose in life. Now that I am no longer a mother, I am trying to find myself again. My art with ceramics & painting have been a helpful tool to expressing my hurts, hopes & healing. Along with reading wonderful writers like you, who seem to reach deep into the soul with their words. I could go on and on, but again I want to thank you for sharing your lovely story. Susan
Please feel free to call me if you want to talk. I needed that for so long and people seemed to think I should be over it. It has been four years and I can honestly say there are few times I still feel like that but I still get together with a group,just to have others around that totally understand where I am at. IF you want my number, email me privately. I”d be glad to share your pain. Art is a great outlet. I wrote a book for two years, it was so healing for me. Also I scrapbooked the end of his life. Love and Hugs(((((Trish)))))
Susan
Thank you for sharing your story and raw pain here. It is so hard to reach people’s souls when they don’t share them and I read in your words a soul searching and determined to find some meaning lost. I know you will find it and I hope you can take Trish up on her offer, as well as others in the Owning Pink Community (http://owningpink.ning.com) who have known pain and are now joining together to support each other through all the phases of life – the pain and the joy together. For myself, I believe those we have lost are still with us. It took me at least 10 years to come to peace with the airplane accident I saw kill my father when I was 16, and through it all and today I take comfort in the fact that when I need him I can feel him near. I am so sorry for the senseless loss you live with and hope that finding people to express it with will help ease some of your burden. May you feel the Love, Light and Blessings I’m sending out to you.
~Dana
Dearest Susan,
We are here- holding you…
with love
Lissa
Thank you Trish, Dana and Lissa. Wow, I wasn’t expecting such a quick response. Today is the first time I came to this website and it looks as though I have alot of reading/catching up to do. What a great group of women. I don’t think I clicked on the email response so I don’t know how to get in touch privately. But many things you said, like purging my soul, sharing with others are so hard at first, but after, a great relief. I do feel like people think I should be over it by now and yet the pain isn’t going away. Someone told me the other day that they felt Derrick’s presence around me, guiding me and that was such a gift for me to hear, because often times I do feel his presence. When I am feeling lost, sad and lonely I will try to hang onto that vision. Thanks again for reaching out to me and sharing your love and blessings. Susan
Dearest Susan,
I just sent my mother your email (I hope that’s okay) because I think being in touch with her might soothe your soul. She leads the Owning Joy After Loss workshops we facilitate via Owning Pink, and she is- on top of that- just a compassionate, loving, heartful woman who has experienced loss herself.
Welcome to Owning PInk- and just know that we are here for you to buoy you as you heal. Chances are, you will discover as you dig in- that you will heal others as well, that your stories and your truth with resonate with the collective experience we all share.
We are honored to have you here. Thank you for trusting us with what is true for you right now.
With love
Lissa
Susan
I echo what Lissa said. We are all here for you. You can reach any of us privately on the Owning Pink Community (http://owningpink.ning.com) and I’m sure Trish will be helpful if you talk to her.
I KNOW Derrick is with you still and when you feel him it is because so much love cannot simply disappear the way the physical things in life can. Love is so many things; it is eternal; it is the pulse of life itself.
We look forward to getting to know you.
Love,
Dana
Dana,
I love that last sentence you wrote about love. That it is eternal and the pulse of life itself. Very poetic. I am overwhemed with the goodness of others.
Thank you so much, Susan
Lissa,
I caught just the very beginning of your entry on Facebook over the weekend. What you wrote about your dad is amazing. I can’t imagine the pain of losing someone so close. It’s a little ironic you wrote this on Friday. Friday the 22nd was my Grandfather’s birthday. He passed away 7 1/2 years ago. He was the closest person to me that I’ve lost. He too was an amazing man whom we miss very much. I know he is with me and sometimes he comes to me in my dreams (which I love). Thank you for posting such a beautiful tribute. It helped prompt me to remember great memories with Grandpa!
Love,
Laurie
Thank you all! And Laurie, yes- thank you for the reminder that we can all pay tribute to those we love- and we don’t even have to wait until we’ve lost them. Imagine writing the eulogy for someone you love who is still alive. Why wait until we lose them to honor them? (Oooh- I see a Mojo Monday exercise coming on…)
Hey Lissa,
Miss you. Remember your Dad crying at your wedding like it was 5 minutes ago, and yet two decades ago!!! Your Dad was really very special, like your whole family actually. Thought of your mom yesterday because I just learned how to play twinkle twinkle little star on my guitar. She told me she used to play to you when you were little
Have been determined to do the same since she said it! I know you carry your Dad in your heart, and he will be there forever. Sending you big hugs,
Love ya, Genevieve
Hi Lissa,
As David’s brother, I can add memories when we were kids, growing up in Cuba. He was the big brother who could figure out anything. There was nothing more in my young life that I wanted to be like him, more than anything. As a four year old, I would cry when he wanted to be with his friends and he wouldn’t let me go with him or to fly kites, or build a motorized dune buggy, which never ran because the motor wasn’t strong enough. David was always into somthing and he never let his age or abilities and later disabilities stop him.
It’s these qualities that prepared him for the tough cards that were dealt him in life. The best way I can sum it up is that David lived his life with hope, no matter what cruel challenges he had to face. He always overcame them and showed the rest of us how to live like him.
I miss him every day, and look forward to our reunion.
Larry Rankin
Thank you so much for sharing your memories Larry. I love that- “David lived his life with hope.” That’s SO true. I too miss him every day and I know he’s doing great things for us from the other side.