Fatherly Advice that Stuck

I recently posted one of my “Friday Reflections” on Sensible Medicine about memorable comments that shaped how I practice medicine. While writing that piece, I kept thinking of my father. He said a lot of things that I can still repeat verbatim, which affect how I live.

I’m certainly not alone in having parents’ words stuck in my head. I am fortunate that most of these words are helpful rather than harmful. I have written here before that my father was an intentional parent. Even though I spent a whole lot more time with my mother than with my father, he grasped the idea of “quality time” way before that was a thing. He plotted time together that gave us time to talk. He also ensured the talks were conversations rather than lectures. Because I always had some time in the spotlight, I never objected to these premeditated tête-à-têtes.

Every day, make things a little bit easier for somebody else.

I know, I know, it is not terribly original. Jackie Robinson’s epitaph says: “A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.” The advice was not even given during a spontaneous conversation; he shared this while I interviewed him for a 4^th-grade assignment. One of the questions that the teacher encouraged us to ask was, “What is your philosophy of life?”

All that said, it is pretty great advice. It works to guide large decisions, like which career path to follow, as well as small ones, like whether you should give up your seat on the EL. It is also crafty advice. At face value, it seems that by following it, you are doing things for other people, but you soon realize how good the little actions make you feel. This makes it pretty good advice to follow. I am sure it was not lost on my father that it was especially useful for a pre-teen, only-child boy who had the potential to become a selfish brat.

NS tells so many jokes that nobody takes him seriously.

Have I said that my father’s parenting was marked by intentionality?

NS was a dear friend of my father’s. Twice, I remember him relating advice he had given NS. One went something like this, disguised, as usual, as a conversation:

BC: What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think about my friend NS?

Me: He is really funny.

BC: Exactly. That is what everyone thinks of first. He’s also a brilliant guy, and fewer people know that than should. NS loves to make people laugh, and he needs people to like him. I’ve noticed that NS makes so many jokes in meetings that many people only see him as the guy with a sense of humor, not the thoughtful, insightful person with loads to give. We drove home together last week, and I talked to him about this.

My father did not tell me this as a warning that if I horsed around too much, nobody would take me seriously. This was never a risk for me. He was teaching me that sometimes being a friend means giving advice. He was also letting me know that having these conversations can be dicey and should be done thoughtfully.

The lessons of this story became obvious over time. When friends of mine were going through difficult times, my father often suggested ways to talk to them — when the time was right. Because he was always one step ahead of me, he also prepared me for conversations I didn’t even know I’d be having — like dealing with peer pressure or breaking up with girlfriends.

When it’s time to choose a career, make sure you do something for the money rather than because you love it. I studied what I loved, and life would be easier if I followed the money.

I was absolutely expected to understand that this recommendation was made tongue-in-cheek. My father probably realized that recommending, as the Talking Heads would later sing, “Never for money/Always for love” would seem laughable in our cynical age.

There were other reasons to give the advice the way he did. First, as this essay attests, these words were memorable. Second, although I never really knew want, there was certainly anxiety about money in the house. My parents shielded me from it, but the ‘70s economy and my father’s desire to live the life he wanted led to some angst. I also think he recognized that, given where we lived and where I went to school, I’d be surrounded by a whole lot of wealth. Making this recommendation made it clear that there’d be choices to make.

What I find most interesting about this piece of advice is the irony of it; an irony I’ve only recognized with time. Having the option to do things for love rather than money is a privilege, one that my parents worked hard to provide. I am sure that the anxiety they felt as I headed off to college the year my mother lost her job must have been intense. That anxiety was also completely hidden from me.

Just so you don’t think I grew up with a perfect father constantly doling out memorable wisdom, rest assured, there were also memorable fails. He told me a story about a dog named Lucky and another one about a patient of his who was struggling as a world-champion marbles player. Even at the time, the veracity of these parables was suspect. The lessons were also just a bit too obvious for the cynical New Yorker he was raising.

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