Day 13: To My Dad, with Love

My dad would have turned 70 today.  

At my dad’s memorial service in 2016, his college roommate from New Mexico State University, Antonio Lara, told one of my favorite stories about my dad. 

He talked about taking my dad for a drive one night and pulling donuts in the campus parking lot. Then my dad, newly quadriplegic and probably more than a few sheets gone, took out his catheter and sprayed his name all over the ground: “David Buse Was Here!”

Before his accident, my dad wanted to be a football star and even scored a football scholarship to Illinois State University. After it, he spent his entire working lifetime teaching and supporting kids — especially students with special needs who held a special place in his heart. 

He would roll up in front of a class of tough middle- or high-schoolers who thought themselves pretty much doomed, done for, and without options, and say, “Hey, look at me! I’m a cripple and I’m still here, doing this! If I can do it, so can you.”

Once, when one of those high schoolers wanted to leave the classroom, my dad told him not to leave the room and wheeled himself over to block the door. Then the boy, probably 250 pounds and more than 6 feet tall, stood directly in front of my dad, grabbed the arms of his wheelchair and lifted him a foot in the air. The boy pivoted the chair 45 degrees out of the way, set it down and proceeded to walk out the door. 

The best part though, was the look on my dad’s face when he recounted this story. A sort of bemusement, told with a laugh. “He just picked me up and moved me,” my dad said. “I mean, what was I going to do, man?” 

Another friend first met my dad when they both worked as administrators for the Las Cruces Public Schools. So, this friend walked into the men’s room in the central office building to find my dad stuck inside! My dad had apparently been stranded there for hours because he could not open the door, ADA being not so much a thing in those days.

“Thanks, man!” my dad said with that same bemusement. “I couldn’t get out!” 

He confronted his whole life with that attitude, especially those aspects that proved tough or nearly impossible for a quad in a walking world: with humor or bemusement. 

Sometimes, in the face of all the crazy, the dark and the difficult, he saw the amused absurd. He knew intimately — in a way most of us never will — how little we control the circumstances of our own lives. But, he also knew the only way to keep going was through. 

The struggles of his life left him sometimes bitter, but with little time for self pity. Mostly, he felt grateful for his life and delighted by how it had turned out.

“Two grown kids, with families of their own? Five grandkids in total? Pretty cool,” he said, “given everything.” 

Although one of his signature lines was, “Meredith, the world’s going to hell in a hand-basket,” he did not really believe that. Deep down, he was an optimist, an avid conversationalist, and a strong believer in people.

He knew the names and back stories of every nurse he saw when he was in the hospital and he prided himself on never forgetting a face. 

My dad wore the scars of his experiences the only way he could — on his body for everyone to see. 

But he felt no embarrassment about who or how or what he was.

No, man. He felt proud.

With his acerbic wit and irrepressible gumption, a healthy dose of optimism and an excessive amount of grit, he felt proud of all he had been through and how strong he still stood.

I get that from him. 

Yesterday, walking down the street, I heard one of my neighbors talking about a device that lets women pee standing up. A Shewee, I believe. 

I’m going to get me one of those, in honor of my dad. 

And I’m going to piss all over the sidewalk — Proudly! Triumphantly! — just to leave my mark. 

“Meredith Buse Was Here.”