FWTB: Chapter 24: A Father's Love

"Your serve, Dad."

And in an instant, Dad flicked his left hand to send the ping pong ball screaming across the net, slight smirk on his face. I lunged for it, barely returning the shot, only for him to place the ball perfectly in the corner beyond my reach. That left hand of his—quick, precise, deadly on the ping pong table. He never showed mercy in our games, believing that earning victory was the only way to truly appreciate it. Years later, I would understand the gift in this approach, but then, I just wanted to finally beat him, to see pride replace that smirk. That competitive fire, that insistence on earning everything—it defined how Dad approached not just games, but life itself.

Their Rhythm

As I settled into my life in California, my parents found a new rhythm together on Shields Street in Detroit. I like to think that I called frequently, checking in on their health and happiness, but I had no regular pattern.

During the winters, they visited Uncle Bubba and Aunt Mildred in Florida, like many Michigan snowbirds seeking refuge from the cold.

Mom poured her heart into the Stork's Nest project, a noble cause spearheaded by Zeta Phi Beta Sorority, Inc. and the March of Dimes Foundation. Her dedication aimed to ensure that more women received essential prenatal care, striving to prevent the heartbreak of low birthweight, premature births, and infant deaths.

Even long after I left for college, Dad maintained his unwavering routine. Every weekday at 7 AM, he made the familiar 5.6-mile drive down Mound Road to the military base in Warren, where his job at TACOM involved managing payroll for both military personnel and civilian employees. The work demanded meticulous attention to detail and a strong grasp of financial systems—qualities Dad possessed in abundance.

He remained dedicated to this role until his retirement in 1986, completing 35 years of federal service. But Dad's timing wasn't coincidental—he deliberately waited until I graduated from college before retiring, ensuring I had the resources I needed to finish my education.

Dad came alive at the bowling alley. The strikes and spares mattered, but what truly drew him in was the brotherhood—a place where he belonged completely. He threw himself into leadership roles with The National Bowling Association, an organization founded in 1939 Detroit as black bowlers sought to build their own community around the sport they loved.

Bowling was beautifully democratic—inexpensive enough that class barriers fell away on the lanes. By 1944, when the group became the National Bowling Association, Inc., Dad was part of something powerful. These men and women were creating their own space, their own traditions, launching the "Equality in Bowling" campaign that opened doors across the sport in 1950.

For Dad, those long evenings at the lanes meant finding his tribe, men who understood both the weight of responsibility and the sweet satisfaction of knocking down pins that had no choice but to fall.

During tax season, Dad's love of numbers became an act of service. He prepared tax returns for friends and neighbors, charging exactly $2—not because the work wasn't worth more, but because that small fee transformed help into a transaction, preserving everyone's dignity. Numbers were Dad's language of care.

To prepare, he brought home thick IRS guidebooks printed on cheap newsprint, studying every rule and regulation with the same precision he brought to TACOM payrolls. I devoured those guidebooks alongside him, absorbing my first lessons in accounting while watching Dad decode how the world worked. His excitement for the logic of numbers was infectious—each form was a puzzle to solve, each calculation a way to help someone keep more of what they'd earned.

When my own tax time came, I followed his example, working through every line with pencil and paper, letting the arithmetic tell its story by hand.

Both Mom and Dad remained dedicated members of Metropolitan Baptist Church. Under the steadfast leadership of Doctor Charles E. Morton, who had been shepherding the congregation since August 1963, the church maintained its commitment to worship quality and community service. But the congregation faced an inexorable challenge—its membership was diminishing as the children of longtime members, like me, moved away from Detroit in search of opportunities that the shrinking city could no longer provide.

The once-thriving congregation began to dwindle, its remaining members aging and growing frail. Among them, most painfully for our family, was Dad.

The Fall

Shortly after Dad's retirement in 1986, our world was shaken when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. The treatment—a radioactive implant and Lupron hormone therapy—was successful, and the cancer went into remission. For a time, we allowed ourselves to believe it was over. Dad returned to his routines—the bowling alley, tax season, Sunday church. Nine years of borrowed normalcy.

Then, one cold December day in 1995, Dad's life changed forever. On a simple trip to the local K-Mart on Sherwood Street, just 2.2 miles from home, he suffered a massive stroke in the parking lot. Shoppers watched in horror as he collapsed, and someone quickly called 911.

I flew to Detroit Metropolitan Airport as soon as I could, rented a car, and drove to the hospital. I went up the elevator. Dad was being taken for tests. My palms were sweaty, mind racing. The hospital reeked of antiseptic. As I waited, I attempted to quiet my mind, to dissociate into the world of business by reading the one book I brought with me, Stephen Covey's popular "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People."

I fought to keep my attention on the book. The world of the book was safe, calm, hopeful.

"Seek first to understand, then to be understood."

Well, I did not understand why my Dad was fighting for his life. My hero didn't deserve this. I found myself bargaining with a God I did not really believe in.

Each page, just two more minutes lost. I retained nothing. I could not focus.

Dad survived the night and the following weeks in a coma. When he finally woke, he was paralyzed on his dominant left side and spent most of his days in a deep, unyielding sleep. Mom stayed by his side day and night at the hospital, her heart breaking a little more with each passing day.

Exile

But hospital care couldn't last forever. Dad needed round-the-clock attention, and with immense reluctance, Mom moved him to Bortz Health Care of Warren, a facility 6.2 miles from home. The closer options were far worse, but even Bortz was dreadful.

When Dad awakened from his coma several weeks later, he began to understand his situation, helpless in the care of strangers, paralyzed on his left side. With slurred speech, he eventually communicated.

"Willa, don't make a fuss. When you leave, I need these people," Dad cautioned, his once commanding voice now soft and raspy, yet still carrying the quiet dignity that had always defined him.

Mom understood his counsel, but she bristled under the conditions.

Visiting nursing homes had become a grim routine for our family. Every Sunday, Dad had visited Uncle Bill when Aunt Net could no longer care for him due to his Parkinson's disease. Now, it was Dad's turn to be confined to one of these places.

The stench of urine assaulted my nose. Men and women alone in their rooms, lying in their own waste. Mom demanded better care, but the overworked staff were slow to respond. She did her best to clean him before I arrived, trying desperately to preserve his dignity.

Seeing my father like this, I felt powerless. I offered money to help, but Mom refused. She insisted they could manage and reminded me I had my own family to care for. I was left feeling ashamed of my impotence.

Over time, Dad started to stay awake more, settling into a somewhat normal sleep schedule. This brought its own agony; as his awareness grew, so did his realization of his predicament. Yet, he never succumbed to self-pity.

Ultimately, her demands for better care fell on indifferent ears.

Coming Home

Mom's heart was splintered. Her partner of 36 years was now trapped in a broken body in a place that seemed devoid of compassion. But she had a plan.

Determined to bring Dad home, she hired a construction company to transform the den into a wheelchair-accessible bedroom with a private attached bathroom, providing him with the privacy and dignity he needed. The adjacent back bedroom, where Mom had sometimes escaped Dad's snoring or welcomed house guests, now became her listening post—close enough to hear every sound he made, every shift in his breathing.

Ten months after Dad's stroke, the construction was complete. Mom equipped the room with an adjustable hospital bed, a wheelchair, and an ADA-compliant ramp to a new back door. With everything in place, she brought Dad home, her heart swelling with relief and determination.

Several of Mom's friends chose to warehouse their disabled husbands in distant nursing homes. Mom did not. She modeled for me true commitment and love. As I watched Mom's selfless dedication to Dad, I reflected on my own selfishness, my own self-absorption. I embraced the realization, even as I fought to avoid the depths of shame.

Mom showed me how to love.

Grace Under Pressure

Mom had earned a pension from the State of Michigan, and Dad had one from the U.S. federal government. Together, they had excellent health care coverage. However, home care was exorbitantly expensive, and their combined pensions weren't enough to cover all the new expenses without significant adjustments.

"We can make it," Mom would insist whenever I offered money, her chin set in that familiar stubborn angle. She started clipping every coupon, driving across town for sales on adult diapers, and making regular trips to agencies that supplied free medical equipment and supplies to the elderly and sick. The same woman who had faithfully tithed to the church throughout her working years and into retirement now found herself navigating the world of social services—friends dropping off casseroles, neighbors offering to sit with Dad for an hour.

Dave and I started traveling to Detroit more often. I remember one time helping Dad with a urinal, both of us avoiding eye contact, the silence heavy with unspoken embarrassment. Later, I found myself grateful for even that small moment of usefulness in an ocean of needs I couldn't fill.

When I asked Mom how she got Dad to his appointments, she'd wave off my concern. "We manage," she'd say. Most of the time she scheduled home health aides to assist, but on more than one occasion she had no one to help. Yet somehow, this 4'11" woman would wrestle Dad's 160-pound frame from wheelchair to car seat, her body straining against his dead weight, sweat beading on her forehead as she adjusted his legs and buckled him in. "I've got this," she'd tell herself, even as her hands shook from the effort.

When the hospital offered a week of respite care, Mom's relief was visible—her shoulders dropping, her smile genuine for the first time in months. "Just one week," she'd tell Dad, kissing his forehead. "I'll be right here when you get back."

Through the hardship, Mom created a sense of normalcy, culminating perhaps in a 40th Wedding Anniversary party that she hosted, complete with a sit-down formal dinner.

40th Wedding Anniversary Party August 1999

Aunt Agnes Bailey, Cousin Bradford Bailey, Aunt Vivian Austin, Renee Burns, Cousin Ronald Austin, Derrick Burns, Maya Burns, Dave Burns, Dr. Gina Gregory-Burns, Willa Burns, Joshua Burns, Jamil Burns, and Howard Burns.

And she always was. Through every small crisis, every medication change, every sleepless night when Dad's breathing grew labored, Mom remained constant. For five years, they built a new life within the confines of disability—Mom's commands, Dad's compliance, small victories measured in successful transfers from bed to wheelchair. They had found their rhythm again.

Until the cancer returned.

The Last Call

Mom and Dad found a new delicate rhythm.

"Howard, stand up."

"Howard, turn this way."

"Howard, …"

If walking were a matter of will power, Dad would walk under Mom's demand. He never walked again on his own power, but he did stand on his one good leg and hold himself up. Mom insisted! But in 2000, five years after his debilitating stroke, his prostate cancer returned with a vengeance, spreading to his lymph nodes. Mom and Dad carried the truth like a private ache, shielding Dave and me from the weight of it.

On May 5, 2000, the façade of normalcy shattered. Mom called me with a tremor in her voice, telling me that Dad was in hospice care and that I needed to come home. I booked the earliest flight, my heart pounding with each passing second. The flight was delayed, prolonging the agony of anticipation. I finally landed at 11 PM, rented a car, and sped home, arriving just after midnight.

When I placed my key in the side door, the door I always entered by, I felt a stillness inside. Mom did not hear me come in. I walked to her bedroom, afraid like I had been as a child in the dark basement. But this wasn't the boogeyman. It was something colder, emptier. In my heart, I knew.

I stepped inside, and silence met me like a wall. I called out, "I'm home!" hoping to pierce the stillness. As I walked to her bedroom—quiet, afraid, unsure if I'd woken her—the phone rang. The sound was jarring, cutting through the stillness like a knife. I picked it up, my hand trembling.

A nurse from St. John's Hospital was on the other end. Her voice was gentle yet firm as she delivered the blow: Dad had just died.

The words stopped me cold. Time stilled around me. I stood there, in the home that held so many memories. My rock—my hero. The left hand that once guided a tax pencil and a ping pong paddle was gone.