Howdy. For those of you who don’t already know me, I’m Barrett Fischer, Don and Kathi’s son. Thank you all for being here today to celebrate my dad’s life with us. It sincerely means more than I can put into words.
Throughout the years, the Lord has seemed to put me in a number of relationships where I have walked with someone through the loss of a parent. I’ve seen my friends stand up here on this stage with courage to honor their moms and dads respectively. Some have broken down quite a bit, and some have delivered the message without shedding a tear. I can tell you that I’ll probably fall somewhere between the two.
My entire life, I never saw my dad cry even once. Not through his mother passing away, any of the pain from the cancer treatments and procedures, nor any other time. He was always strong in front of me, to the very end. Having to face the mortality of that symbol of strength in my life has been far more difficult than I could have ever imagined.
Everyone in this room has a different way of knowing my dad. Some of you only knew him through me or my mom. Some of you knew him through a Sunday School class, or other church related activity. Some of you worked alongside him during his 32 years as a sales rep for Pfizer. Some of you played golf with him in the senior league at Silverhorn. Some of you spent time with him through various San Antonio A&M Club events and functions. Some of you were in the Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band with him. Some of you knew him through your job, and had him and my mom as clients. Some of you are family. Some of you very close friends.
I am blessed to be the only one that was able to call him “Dad”.
My parents tried for 5 years before they became pregnant with me. Before my daughter was born, my dad asked me, “Are you sure you’re ready to be a dad?”, and I said, “Were you?” He answered with a quick “No.” That answer just goes to show that God can use us in powerful ways, even when we feel ill-equipped.
He was the best father I could ask for. Those of you that knew him well knew that he wasn’t one to talk your ear off, especially about his emotions or feelings. Regardless, I knew implicitly that he loved me. It has been a blessing to hear so many stories from so many areas of my dad’s life the past few days. A common theme was that he just walked the walk. In that vein, a good word for my dad was “endearing”. His smile, his infamous laugh, his servant’s heart. I feel like the only times he really got upset were when he felt he had let someone down, or he didn’t want you to let someone else down.
When I was little he would read to me every night before I went to sleep, then he would pray with me, and sit in a chair at the foot of my bed until I fell asleep (because I was afraid of the dark). I requested that he read to me every night, because in my estimation as a young child, he was “the best reader” of the two of my parents. Some of you get the irony of this, knowing that my mom is a masters educated early childhood specialist and was a kindergarten and pre-k teacher for many years. I guess, like many of you, I was simply drawn to my father’s demeanor. A good chunk of the time, what he would read me was scripture. We would go through books of the Bible, and I would ask questions. He let me pray, never critiquing my prayer or interjecting; just lovingly sitting by my bedside holding my hand while I said my childlike prayers. The fact that after that he would sit in there with me for another 10+ minutes while I fell asleep is astounding to me as I look back on it. Being in sales myself, and knowing how tired he must have been so many nights, and how much he probably would have preferred some time alone or with my mom, but instead decided to selflessly comfort me, is astonishing. I am so thankful for those memories.
Comforting was not always his strong suit, though. The first time I ever camped out was with him in the Cub Scouts’ “Freezeree” camp out at McGimsey Scout Park off of Northwest Military. I was in early elementary school, and I’m pretty sure my dad was even more excited about the trip than I was. My dad’s father was a scoutmaster, and passed away right around my dad’s 14th birthday. I know that my dad had always wanted me to experience time with him in that capacity, since his time was cut short with his own father in the scouts. Well, unlike my grandfather, my dad was not all that versed in camping. He bought us a tent, and got us sleeping bags, but mine was an un-insulated Star Wars sleeping bag made for indoor sleepovers. That first night it dropped below freezing, and I woke up sick as a dog. It was a two night trip, and he would not accept that I was sick. I did all the activities at his direction, slept out there the additional night, and came home with a 103 degree fever to a less than pleased mom.
Despite his inability to accept that I was sick then, or pretty much any time I was sick enough to miss school, the meta-narrative of my dad’s relationship to my mom and I was one of protection. He wanted to protect us from pain and failure inherently (even when it was clear that we had put ourselves in that situation in the first place). I have a distinct memory of him driving me to Kinko’s at Bitters and 281 to get a school project printed and bound at 3:00 in the morning because I had put off working on it until the last minute.
Sometimes, he had to simply protect me and my mom from each other. I’m a lot like my mother in a number of ways, and that caused a number of arguments between her and me growing up. My dad was always the buffer. Whether it was editing a paper for my English class, or familial disagreements, I reached out to him to help. While sometimes it was impossible for us all to not get hurt, I knew that he would hear me out and have an open mind. Having the ability to just call him and talk in general, or through difficult things, is something I will deeply miss.
I think this protective desire was what made his fight against leukemia even stronger. As much as he wanted to live, he equally didn’t want my mom and me to be in the pain that his departure has caused us. In the end, however, neither he, nor the doctors, nor I, nor my mom could control that.
How thankful I am that my father worshipped the One who is. The peace I have in the knowledge of my dad’s faith in Christ, is absolutely invaluable today. I am comforted knowing that we will be together one day in a place where he is no longer suffering like he has for the past 15 months. Where sin is no more, and perfection and joy are the very air we breathe. How different today would be if I could not rest in my dad’s eternal salvation.
In the last week of his life, he didn’t talk about or want to see me and my wife Jennifer’s daughter, his granddaughter, Braelynn, because I think it caused too much pain for him to think about not seeing her grow up. That is what has crippled me emotionally the most through his passing. I obviously didn’t know my dad’s dad growing up because he passed away when my father was so young. My mom’s dad passed away when I was 2, so I have precious few memories with him as well. My whole childhood I heard stories about them both, and how much they would have or did love me. One of my deepest desires was for my children to know my father and the great man that he was throughout their lives. While I don’t understand why the Lord did not grant that to me, I know that my father’s legacy will be passed on through me and her. Of course, I will need all of you to tell her stories and memories of my father as you knew him, so that she understands the depth and breadth of who he was.
Beyond just my father, he was my playmate growing up. I didn’t have any siblings, so naturally my parents would fill the role of a brother or sister in some respects. My dad would be my nerf-war partner (whether voluntarily or not), and was also the subject of my pranks. One summer morning during my high school years, while he was in the shower, I snuck in to the bathroom and rubbed Icy-Hot in the front of my dad’s briefs. He got dressed in his suit, finished getting ready for work, drove off, and I never heard anything of it. Disappointed, I asked him at the dinner table a couple of nights later if he had noticed anything different in the way his clothes felt that week. He said that he didn’t want to give me the satisfaction of knowing that he did, but that it hit him when he was about a half mile down the street after leaving the house. He was in a time crunch to get to a doctor’s office he called on, with breakfast for them, and didn’t have time to go home and change. So he just literally sweated it out through the whole day in the viciously hot south Texas heat, in his suit. I’m of the belief that he got the last laugh, though, because my mom’s response was, “Barrett! You could have burned your father!” A haunting mental image I never wanted planted in my head.
If you knew anything about my dad, you knew that he was an Aggie thru and thru. He always told me that I could go to any college I wanted, but he was only paying for A&M. When my mom was eight months pregnant with me, they were at the A&M/Longhorn game. My mom wasn’t feeling well sometime in the second half and wanted to go to the car. I’ve already told you about my dad’s inherent protective nature, so you would probably deduce that he left early and walked my mom to the car, right? Wrong. He refused to leave an Aggie game early and had my mom walk back to the car by herself. During my soccer games throughout my childhood, my dad would stand at the top of the bleachers with a radio headset on, listening to the Aggie game and yell “C’MON BARRETT!!”. Sometimes, I wondered if he was really yelling for me, or if the Aggies had just done something good or bad on his headset. One of the last things he said to me on Monday, before he completely lost the ability to speak, had to do with one of his biggest regrets. Completely serious, he did not mention seeing Braelynn grow up or traveling with my mom, or anything like that. You know what it was? He said, “Barrett, I’m just really disappointed that I won’t get to see the new Kyle Field after it’s reconstructed.”
That was my dad. He was a proud member of the Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band, class of 1972. He served as president of the San Antonio A&M Club in the mid 1990’s, he was the current area representative of the Association of Former Students, and one of his absolute favorite things in the world was going to College Station on game weekends with my mom in their RV. The majority of my life, they have had football season tickets. In fact, after I’m finished, we are going to sing The Spirit of Aggieland as one of his wishes. I’ll go ahead and tell you now that it’s okay if you don’t know the words. If you didn’t go to school there, we don’t expect you to sing along, which is why we don’t have the words printed anywhere. If you know the words, please sing along, but if not, I would ask that you simply stand out of respect of my dad’s wishes.
I’ll close with this: The last night of my dad’s life, I sat in the room with him while my mom ran home to pack an overnight bag so that she could sleep in the room with him. As I was sitting there next to him, I wrote the following words. Some of you have read them on my blog, but the emotions I felt then still ring true:
“Since November 23, 2012, the day my dad was diagnosed with leukemia, I have not shed a tear. I refused to, assumptively praying in faith that The Lord would heal him. This morning, 15 months of emotion broke like a dam. The water behind it has had varying levels over time. By my birthday, right before New Year's, I thought the lake was almost dry. By mid-January, the rains started and finally spilled over this morning.
Oh, how quickly our lives can change.
Today at 6:38 a.m., as I was waking up for the day to begin with, instead of my alarm causing my phone to shake, my phone's screen read "Mom" and an internal alarm shook me. As Mat Kearney says in his song "Closer To Love", we're all one phone call from our knees. My, have I lived that lesson over the past year and a half.
I've sat here in the room with my dad, watching as cancer and morphine consume his mind and body. As I type, I sit here in the dimly lit room, only the sound of the oxygen flowing into his nose from the wall and the machines forcing fluids into his veins as background noise. The sound of his labored breathing cuts through the monotony of the manmade symphony of despair, and I can't help but hope I'm in a nightmare. The kind that wakes you up and has you call your loved one immediately to make sure they're okay because the dream was so realistic.
Maybe he'll wake up out of this stupor. Maybe he'll take off his hospital gown, slip on his shirt and pants, and walk out the front door of the hospital holding my mom's hand. Maybe we'll get a tee time for Saturday and enjoy one of many more rounds of golf I dreamed of when Jennifer and I moved back to San Antonio. Maybe he'll watch Braelynn grow up; hold her on his shoulders as they walk through a crowd. Beam with pride at her high school graduation. Pat me on the back on her wedding day.
Or maybe he'll die in this hospital bed in the next three days under the glare of sterile fluorescent lights.
Why, God, is the latter what is expected, instead of the former? Why must I look at him, barely able to open his glazed eyes, and tell him for the last time that I'm proud to be his son; I'm proud that he's my dad? Why must I try to comfort my mom and tell her that everything will be alright, when I'm almost positive that it won't?
This morning, no amount of mental preparation could have equipped me for the sight of my dad: A hospital room darkened by a foggy early morning and grief. Eyes caked shut, mouth gaping, groaning, and worst of all, my hope's air being taken away by a body shot from reality.
The only reoccurring dream I've ever had was when I was between the ages of 4 and 7. I would be in the car with my dad, on the way to my grandma's house on the south side of town. He would be in his suit, ready for work, and I would be sitting there, talking to him. Out of nowhere, he would disappear. In panic and terror, I would reach for the wheel, with a full realization that I didn't know how to drive. I would wake up right before the car would slam into something. That dream crystallized the underlying fear I had my entire life.
I'm not ready to take the wheel, dad. How will I know where to go without your help? What lessons do I still have to learn from you? What stories did you not tell me? How will I be able to balance mom with everything else?
I know you can't answer me now. No one can. Only time, via The Lord, will. Until then, I will go to sleep, I'll wake up, I'll eat, and I'll go back to bed. I'll try to live my life emulating the example of selfless love you displayed for mom and me, to my wife and daughter.
Good bye for now. I love you.”
