I think I am wide awake, but am actually dreaming. I am with my father at the Donaldson Park skating rink.  It is the middle of winter in Highland Park, New Jersey.  The year is 1964.  My dad is gracefully gliding across the ice and he is being observed in awe by the one hundred or so kids and adults in attendance.  It is a cold and bright outside; one of the rare New Jersey nights where you can actually see the outline of the stars and the planets.

The night is quiet and I can hear the sliding of my dad’s skates as I warm my hands by the fire.  He is smiling and content with all that the world can throw at him.

I had no idea that my dad would be dead in less than two years from a stroke.  I suffered greatly for years after he left us.  I have felt extreme panic, utter despair and ongoing confusion.

Now at age sixty four, I honor my father’s death.  There are no more thoughts on how to bring him back, no endless spinning of repetitive ideas that kept me holding on to him.  No more woulda, shoulda, coulda.  No more regrets.  I recognize that I have grieved his loss and that he really loved me.  At this stage in my life I now understand what it means to accept and move on.

I can cry without analyzing the angst that brought the tears. I now appreciate and am aware when I am living in the present.  When I am watching a sporting event, I realize when it is special and not likely to be duplicated. I take this all in and slow down my racing thoughts.

I have been a psychotherapist in private practice for almost thirty years. I become angry when I become emotionally connected to abused and neglected children.  I want to provide tools to the kids in order to withstand their parent’s volatility and chaos.  I confront the parents on their behavior knowing that these adults are actually traumatized children residing in grown up bodies. They are consumed by their own emotional wounds and there isn’t much energy left over for their children.

As I age, I seem to have more empathy towards the parents and will try to reach them long after most therapists have assessed the futility of these situations. But, I become desperate in my hope, knowing that if they cycle of violence doesn’t change, the volume of their unanswered cries will only increase.

I almost died about six years ago and the reality of my possible demise becomes more real daily. I cry deep from the gut when I think about all the experiences I would have missed if I was gone.  I would miss my perseverance even in situations where hard work didn’t pan out. I would miss laughing with my friends and experiencing new sights and sounds.

I would have never met Tia and Leo.  I would have never known the joy of being a surrogate grandparent.

I would never have had the opportunity to witness the flourishing of The Meadows-Livingstone School.  A school, which happens to be owned by my wife Gail.

I become sad when I think about all the music I wouldn’t have heard; the films and TV shows I would have missed.

I would have never run around beautiful Star lake, Wisconsin where my sister and I were joined by family and friends who are family(Sharon and Norman).  Forty-eight years after my father’s death, we held a righteous memorial for my father.

As I age towards Medicare /social security, I appreciate every waking moment and hold on to dear life with all my might.

I am most grateful for my wife of almost forty-three years, Gail Meadows. I live for her smiles and embrace.  I know she loves me for who I am and a man can’t ask for more than that.

I leave you with these lyrics to Johnny Rawl’s song called Blaze of Glory.

Learned a hard lesson all too well

I learned how to get up every time I fell

I’m goin’ to keep the music alive to my last dying day

I won’t go down easy I won’t fade away

I’m goin’ to keep on to my dyin’ day

As long as the pages keep on turnin’

I’m gonna keep the fires burnin’

If this is the end of my story

I’m goin’ out in a blaze of glory