When my dad was a boy, my grandfather worked summers as a trucker, hauling produce across California. Sometimes, he would take my dad on day trips. On one of these trips through the extremely rural heartland, they came across a terrible accident.

My grandfather stopped his rig to offer assistance. The sheriff was already at the scene and had called for an ambulance. Two cars had hit each other head-on and the drivers had been thrown from their cars. One man was already dead and the other gravely injured. Rural car crash circa 1961, there was apparently not much anyone could do in the way of helping that didn’t involve a gun or a mop.

My dad, then only a kid of eight or so, ran over to the cop and demanded his hat. When the baffled officer gave it to him, my dad held it over the dying man’s face so he could have some shade instead of a sunburn.

My mom told me that story when I was 25 in answer to my question, “so why do you think Dad went into medicine?”

Three years ago, my mom and dad flew to California to visit me. While there, Dad got a call from his sister that their father (also in California) was at the end-stage of his long-term illness and would probably not last the week.

My dad chose not to drive 7 hours to see my grandfather one more time before he died. As far as I know, Dad had a fairly good relationship with my grandfather, and I am not entirely sure I understand why he made the choices he did. Two days later, he made the drive to attend the funeral.

Once, when I was really low, my dad emailed me a list of terrible mistakes he had made. He pulled no punches nor made any excuses. Just a black and white concordance of errors in judgement he had survived.

There have also been lots of years when my dad was a stranger. When I was 12, we got in a fight and he got so mad that he walked out the door and drove off and didn’t come back for hours.

When I was an adult speaking to him about my adolescent years, he quoted Indiana Jones and said to me, “Anne, you left just when you were getting interesting”. I was horrified when he laughed as he said that. I think it was accurate – most of my early childhood I’m afraid I was more of a chore than a creature of interest to him.

When I asked him where babies came from at the age of six, he told me I came from K-Mart. “You were a blue-light special!” He insisted.

And other times when I really needed him, he came through for me in ways I would have thought beyond him.

Thanks, Dad. For a while there I was pretty scared our relationship would end up like a Cat Steven’s song. When I see you playing with my kids I know it’s going to be better than that. I hope that one day I’ll know you well enough to know if I am supposed to drive to the hospital to see you one last time, or if I’m supposed to know why I shouldn’t. Happy Father’s Day. I love you.