When I was six years old, I was visiting my aunt and uncle’s home in Bristol, Tennessee. My three older cousins, whom I viewed with no small degree of awe, spent the time showing me around their home and letting me play with their toys. I don’t remember most of them, but I do remember one. It was a comic book. On the cover was a man clad in red, blue and yellow, clouds parting before his outstretched fist as green fire burst around him. I stared at the illustrations throughout the book with a level of awe and reverence that would be odd for any other young child, but not for me. When I looked at those pages, I didn’t see Clark Kent.
I saw my father.
Most sons look up at their father and believe them to be heroes. I looked up at my father, and knew it to be true. Decades in the Army left my father a towering figure, orbited by stories of leaping from airplanes and defeating enemies that dared trifle with the United States. In my mind, he was the line that protected us from those that would crawl from the darkness and go bump in our night. I watched him return to our home, splattered in mud, white teeth gleaming brilliantly from a face camouflaged in mud and green paint, and I knew with the ironclad certainty granted a child that my father had returned from glorious battle.
When I first discovered Stephen King at the ripe old age of 11, and stayed up until midnight reading about demon cars and screaming teenagers, the fear never overcame me. When I sat in a darkened theater and watched my first horror film played out in sprays of red and shrieks of terror, my eyes stayed open and my grin split my face. When we moved to Utah, a place where I felt ostracized and different, I knew it would be okay. No matter what happened, Superman lived in my world. He traded in tights for camouflage, bulletproof flesh for a Kevlar helmet, but he was the man of steel, and the nightmares and darkness would always be held at bay by his will and his love.
I am nearly 35 years old. My father retired from the army years ago. He’s retired now, and has an impressive suburban garden and spends hours on Ancestry.com. He loves my girls as much as any of his grandchildren. In every possible way, he’s a different man than the one who parachuted into Grenada or prowled through the jungles of Vietnam. But no matter what, I still see the red cape around his shoulders, and part of me still believes my world safer with him around.
There are many reasons I made the decision to get healthy. I’ve spoken about many of them. But it’s impossible to grow up with a father who viewed physical fitness and the pursuit thereof as one of the fundamental tenants of a person’s worth. He took time every day to improve himself, be it mentally, spiritually, or physically. As I got fatter and weaker, I saw a look in his eyes more and more. I took it as disappointment, and became defensive. I made excuses not to go over and see him, because I didn’t want him to be let down by his fat son. But recently, I realized that the look wasn’t one of disappointment. It was one of fear.
My father is proud of what I’ve accomplished. He doesn’t look at me and see my failures, he sees the things I’ve accomplished. When I published my book, he was my biggest fan. When I graduated from college, he was there smiling broader than anyone. When I became a navy nuke, he drove eight hours to clap me on the shoulder and give that tiny nod and grin that speaks louder than thunder. He was proud of me. And every pound I gained, he was afraid I was risking it all. When, after three months of TSFL, I walked into my parent’s home, the smile I saw on his face was the best compliment I’ve ever gotten. It was pride blended with relief. And in that moment, I felt twenty feet tall.
Yesterday, my father found himself in the hospital. I’ve spent the last two days with him and my mother, waiting for a white coat to step into the room and announce disaster or relief. Things look good, and we’re confident. But seeing a parent laying on a hospital bed, the machinations of medicine dripping and beeping around them, we feel a fundamental truth of our universe crumble away. The world out there is large and looming, and sooner or later, even Superman will stumble.
But nothing will ever take away his exploits. Nothing will take away the color panels on the pulp paper. My father returning home from combat, loaded down with gear and scooping me up into his arms. My father charging up the long stairs at Utah State University in ten degree weather, his breath puffing in frozen clouds as the snow falls on his brow. The ranks of soldiers arrayed before him, still as statues as he prowls among them, pausing long enough to wink at me as I clutch my mothers hand. Those are part of who I am, part of how I see the world.
I am losing weight for myself, because of a myriad of reasons. But I’m also losing weight for the two beautiful girls in my life, the trio of nephews that clamber up on me and bellow my name. I should be an example to them, someone that should they emulate, it will make their life better, not worse. I don’t know if I can ever be as towering or as infallible as the Superman I grew up with. But I will try.
Today, he got out of the hospital bed to stretch his legs. I moved to help him, but he waved me off, and in a moment, stood next to his bed. And in that moment, the red swirled around his legs, and a 35-year-old man saw his hero just as tall and invincible as he’s ever been. He’s still showing me what it means to be a man and a father. He’s still showing me how to fly.
