Thanks, Dad, For the Stubborn

My father died a few years ago, and I will admit frankly that my primary feeling was relief. He’d had three strokes and died of congestive heart failure, despite decades of lecturing every person he ever met about his radical vegan diet and how it cured his heart problems (it helped them, but did not cure them). He refused to sign a DNR, so about three months before his ultimate death, he suffered cardiac arrest with an infection from his declining condition, and he was brought back so that he could go home to hospice care, and lingered far past when he wanted to.

I was diagnosed with autism a few years before he died, and one of the most painful parts of the diagnosis was the realization of how much of my father was apparent in all my autistic characteristics. Although he could never have accepted the diagnosis for himself (he was too autistic to see any problems in his many social weaknesses), he was clearly the genetic source of my autism. I have found myself cursing myself and him repeatedly for my inability to speak truths gently, my struggles with scents and crowds, my intense focus on patterns and my tendency to repeat things in order to find comfort and stability in the world.

When he came back from open heart surgery about a year before his ultimate death, I told my children that the first thing he did was to get on his exercise bike and cycle for three hours (to make up for time lost in the hospital) before he could let himself go to sleep. My children all laughed at this and told me that I was exactly like him. With chagrin, I will admit that it was only two years before that I’d gone to the emergency room with kidney stones, and came home very late at night to wake up one hour later and get on my own stationary bicycle for my planned workout. Working out every day is a part of the routine of my life that helps me to feel in control of the world and settled in myself. It is a kind of stim, I suspect, an autistic need to let out energy in an acceptable way.

The last several years of my life have been difficult and traumatic. Divorce is one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced, possibly worse than (though probably related to) the lost of a child. I sometimes wonder why it is that I’ve managed to survive a number of things that might well have stopped another person in their tracks. I’ve retrained in an entirely new job, become a supervisor in that job, and passed multiple tests with flying colors. I managed to buy myself a new home and now find myself lecturing others about the intricacies of IRS Publication 590-A. I also completed two Ironman World Championships in 2022, despite working 60 hours most weeks, and doing my studying for tests on top of that.

I’ve slowed down dramatically in this time, and for someone who used to pride herself on her national ranking in triathlon, it is sad, almost embarrassing. This weekend, I finished an incredibly slow marathon. I wasn’t able to run more than 3 minutes at any point in the race. 3 minutes running, 1 minute walking, for a good part of the race, except for the part of the race that was 1 minute running, 2 minutes walking. I could have given up. Maybe I should have given up. But I don’t think I ever even considered that possibility. I just kept my head down and kept going, running when my watch beeped and walking when it beeped again. And I’m absurdly proud of that finish, even though the time is terrible, because it was an effort of sheer will—and yes, stubbornness. It has gotten me through a lot of things. It may kill me, in the end, but first, it will get me through stuff.

Thanks, Dad, for the stubbornness that is clearly a genetic trait that you passed on to me. I don’t always appreciate the legacy you left without asking my permission, but this one thing I’ve begun to feel deep respect, admiration, and even some amusement for when it appears in my own behavior. Even though you are gone now and unable to do anything in real life, by God, you are still helping me survive the worst. If I had to choose it all over again, I can’t say I’d choose this path. If I don’t get a choice (and it seems I don’t), at least you made sure that I had both the nature and the nurture components to get through the impossible.