The Power of Compassion: A Holiday Gift

There was nothing soft about my father. He was old-school strict and often brutally harsh. Seeking comfort from him was like trying to buy milk at a hardware store. To his credit, he was an excellent provider. But a lousy Dad. The truth is I didn't know my father. No one did. He was an enigmatic man with a brick wall around him so high you could never look in. The only thing predictable about him was his unpredictability. His mercurial moods were as reliable as a volatile stock market. My father was a Greek immigrant who came to the U.S. in the early 1950s seeking the American dream. He left his home village in Greece at age 16, in 1936. He fought in WWII, almost died from pneumonia, suffered hard economic times and yet, still created a successful business in New York City with no formal education. My father never finished high-school. He loved to brag that although he never earned a college degree, he was a "graduate of the university of life." He never talked about his past either -- especially his childhood. If you asked him about it, he would skewer you like a shish-kebab and send you packing before you could say feta cheese. Apparently, somewhere along his life path, he was ruthlessly mistreated which left an indelible wound in his heart -- a wound he would never recover from. In October of 2004, dying of complications from a stroke, my 84-year-old father slipped into a coma. He signed the DNR a few days earlier, choosing to decline further treatment. He had no ...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news