We were standing on opposite sides of the beehive. He would start at one end, and I would start at the other. We searched for the queen. We looked for any signs of sickness in the colony. We made sure the queen was laying eggs, and that there weren’t a bunch of swarm cells. Some moments are etched into my mind. The bushes beside me brush up against my bee suit. The sound of cars thundering by on the main road behind our house. The sight of Dad looking intently at each frame of bees. I looked over at him through my bee veil as he lifted one of the frames. I noticed his slightly protruding stomach and a little knot of worry formed right in the middle of my gut. I debated with myself. Should I broach the subject? I finally stuck a toe into the murky water. “So, how are you feeling?”
“Well …” I could see him considering his answer. He continued to look down at the frame of bees, searching for the queen. “It’s a mental struggle, you know?” He paused again, put that frame back and grabbed another. “I feel pretty good, but I really have to be careful about what I eat. But there’s this constant battle with fear. Your mom, she’s tough …” I could tell that his worry was more for her than for himself. “You just have to not give in to it.” He ended his answer with a typically stated, Dad declarative. That was his final answer. He was not going to give in to the fear and worry. He was going to win the mental battle.
I was grabbing frames on my side of the hive box and racking my brain for a compelling response. How could I comfort this man who had guided and comforted me for the last 39 years? “I mean, I’m having a hard time with that myself. I can’t imagine how tough it is for you, and for Mom too. There are bunches of studies that talk about the power of positive thinking, and even with bad odds there’s always a chance that you won’t be one of the negative statistics.” My answer sounded weak, like a platitude, to my own ears, but it was the best I could do.
We chatted a bit more about his prognosis. He and mom decided that they didn’t want to hear statistics or probabilities about how long he would likely live. They were going to stand on faith and not be discouraged. The doctors also told him to continue with his normal activity as much as possible. So, there we were on a beautiful, sunny May day, May 9th in fact, checking the bees.
One more thing of note that speaks to Dad’s strength. Keep in mind that he was already diagnosed with Stage 4 abdominal cancer at this point. The last hive we checked was hive #4. Dad had it stacked impossibly high because the hive was strong and making honey like only happy bees can do. It was well over 6 feet tall. Each super must have weighed 50 pounds, chock full of delicious honey. I knew that Dad hadn’t been eating very well, and he was losing weight, so I thought I’d get that top super down myself to help him out. As is often the case, I overestimated my own strength. I couldn’t lift it. Dad did it. He lifted it off, with plenty of grunts and manly declarations. He lifted it. Then he laughed at me good naturedly.
“You’re only able to do that because you’re taller,” I said with some chagrin.
We teased each other like that, and I loved it. I was suited up head to toe with every opening covered, while he stood there in short sleeves and no gloves. He liked to be able to hold the frames with his bare hands, and when it was hot he eschewed the full bee suit for a simple veil covering his face. He claimed that’s how real men did beekeeping. He looked at me and acknowledged, “That’s true, my height helps. What’s your excuse for the duct tape around your ankles?”
“That’s called intelligence,” I responded, “seems like something you’re lacking.”
He laughed. I miss that laughter, whether it was at me or at himself or just for the joy of living, he knew how to laugh. He confessed to battling fear, which is understandable, but all the way to the very end he never showed it. He promised that he would “not give in to it,” and he fulfilled that promise. We may question how much good that did him, since he passed away barely a month later. Then I look at that month and I remember the faith, the courage, and even the occasional laughter. Given the circumstances, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I am sick and sad and angry that he is gone, but I am thankful that he was my Dad. I’m so thankful. I’m thankful that I was privileged to enjoy nearly 40 years with him, which is more than only a handful of others can say. I’m thankful for that spring afternoon, May 9th, 2013, when I had the opportunity to work with him on the beehives. It was sweetness itself to be out there next to my dad doing one of the things he truly loved.
