Remembering a father's love

by Nils Rosdahl

In a dream last night, I relived an event that actually happened in 1954 when I was 9 years old. Consciously, I can't remember much of it, but this is the way it happened in my dream – as if I was watching it in a movie.

We lived in Thompson Falls. This late-summer evening, like many others, Dad took me fishing. My interest in fishing was pretty slim, but I often went with Dad. Being the town's only doctor, he didn't often have time to be part of my activities so this was our special time. It also was handy that he was a doctor because I was an anemic kid with multiple allergies, some severe.

When we would get to our destination, I might fish for a little while, and then I would explore or make rock footpaths across streamlets or build model houses out of rocks and small pieces of driftwood.

This particular evening, we went to the mouth of Big Beaver Creek on the Clark Fork River west of town. We had to park about a mile from the creek mouth. The hike took us through a hayfield and across a plateau that was matted with tall, waving, dusty knapweeds with stalks that scratched at our skin. Dusky, purple flowers brushed at my face, which was much closer to the ground than Dad's. Finally we scrambled down the steep creek bank to the water.

I fished with Dad for a little while. But getting bored with that, I left him and climbed over a weedy outcropping and went downstream to play in the rocks and water.

I don't know how long we had been there. I don't at all remember being affected – losing my breath and passing out. But in my dream I saw Dad start to look for me as he fished. The river bank was steep and irregular, crowded with rocks and bushes. Dad looked upstream, then down. Reeling in and carrying his pole, he walked about 100 feet in each direction and called to me. Not getting an answer, he dropped his pole. He began to search for me seriously.

He found me about 100 yards away on the bank of an inlet. I was unconscious and barely breathing. He scrambled to me, knocking loose rocks into the water. He put his ear to my head and listened to my breath and felt my pulse. He unbuttoned the top of my shirt and wiped my mouth with his sleeve. Although he knew it wouldn't clear my swollen windpipe, he placed his mouth over mine and blew several deep breaths into me to fill my lungs.

I blinked to consciousness and coughed, my breath tight and raspy. I fought to keep breathing. My chest hurt as I wheezed. Dad knew the problem. It wasn't the first time this had happened.

He picked me up. I was limp in his arms. Fortunately I was a skinny kid, probably weighing about 60 pounds. He rested me on his knee, jostled me and lifted me higher against his chest so he could balance and stand.

He carried me up the bank. Seeing the weeds ahead, he stopped and eased me down. He rested me against his knee and tore off part of his shirttail, tying it around my head to shield me from further pollen.

As he knelt he held me tight. He kissed the side of my forehead and whispered, "Oh, help me, God."

This is what I actually remember about this drama. I still feel it in my soul. It was one of the moments of my life that I most cherish. I remember feeling so loved, so secure. Now I smile with the memory, but I'm sure my face was ashen and sallow then.

His grizzled face nuzzled my white-haired head. With the cloth over my nose and mouth, he stood and carried me through the weeds and across the hayfield to the car. He opened the trunk and took a needle and adrenaline vial from his worn, black bag. The bag was always with him. Nearly every night he had someone needing medical help.

This time it was his only son.

Gradually the drug began to clear my lungs and windpipe. Dad sat on the road, resting my head on his leg. When he knew I was past danger, he put me into the car. He laid me on the bench front seat with my head under the steering wheel. He got in the driver's side and put the side of my head on his thigh. As he drove the half hour home he continually felt my neck.

When we got there he laid me on the living room couch. I felt OK by then. He went into the kitchen where Mom was getting dinner.

As he washed his hands, he said quietly, "We almost lost him."

She quietly followed him across the living room, smiled at me and went with him into the bedroom and shut the door.

I got up and started into the next-door bathroom. I heard them talking.

"We nearly lost him," he said again. Then he started to cry.

I'm sure he told Mom everything that happened. But he didn't tell her what I remember. That is mine forever.

Now, nearly 65 years later, at work the day after my dream, I told a colleague about it. She asked if Dad was still alive.

When I said "No," she said, "I think he visited you last night." I smiled at her and went into an empty room and cried.