As I sat there shivering in a hospital robe, waiting to be seen by my father’s friend, I fought back the tears. For some reason, the emotions and memories came flooding back with more acuity, and the grief, which never fully subsides, made its presence more fully known than it had in past months.

When the doctor knocked on the door, I pulled myself together and answered with a smile, “Come in.”

–

I still go out of my way to go to the hospital where my father worked for the last fifteen years of his career when it would be much easier to find a hospital closer to where I currently live. The reasons are many. I have memories of office visits dotting much of my childhood – like old videos playing through my mind — meeting the nurses and physician’s assistants, chatting it up with the receptionists, holding my daddy’s hand and having lunch with him in the hospital cafeteria. The green jello catching the garish glare of the basement lights.

I am tied to that building like an old, familiar friend, and even eight years removed from his active practice there, I can still see him - tall, handsome, grinning - walking around at a quick pace that I am all too familiar with as I have been accused of having the same gait.

People stare at me when I go; some know me on sight; others only are caught off guard by a strange familiarity – their quizzical faces searching mine, as if they know me but can’t quite place me. I know it’s because I am clearly my father’s daughter. His features grace my face, and for that, I am thankful - I was always Daddy’s girl and the tangible reminders are welcomed. (Though I like to think that I am slightly more beautiful, especially considering my father’s face was usually graced by a beard.)

I continue to go partly because I can still see Dad, sitting in his office, his white lab coat turned around, put on like a straight-jacket, hamming it up with the phones for my amusement, a huge grin lighting up his eyes as his daughter laughs at his antics; I can smell the sterile hospital smells as I scribble at his desk, eight years old, amusing myself for hours while he sees patients until he is able to take me home, doctor friends coming in and out to give me those horrid hospital suckers that I always eagerly looked forward to after a doctor’s appointment, to supply me with crayons and paper, to bring me apple juice and graham crackers - Dad popping in after every appointment to make sure I’m okay. I can see the piece of rough wood sitting on his shelf, onto which I scratched “I love you, Daddy” in an unsteady hand with pencil, the lines fading – simple but profoundly magnificent for a four year old - and where my father, in his infamous doctor’s handwriting, denoted “Christen” in the bottom right hand corner.

It is always bittersweet when I see his old colleagues, his friends, his family; I intentionally make it a point to say “hi” to some – everyone who knew my father loved him. One might say I am biased, but to this day, I meet people who barely knew him but know of him – they tell me stories that bring continued healing to my heart – it is cathartic to talk about my father, but so few do because they watched the grief I went through. But those at the hospital don’t hesitate. Perhaps they unconsciously understand how I hunger to talk about him with those who knew him.

Today, the front lobby receptionist on the first floor called out after me, as I walked toward the front entrance, “Are you related to Dr. Patterson?” A bit startled, since I did not recognize her and Dad worked on the second floor, I paused, turned around and nodded affirmation. Before I know it, I am being told a tale of how she didn’t know him well but yet, stated warmly, “There was no other physician like him.”

She explicated, “When I first started here, I would always see this doctor running around the waiting room, dashing in and out in his white coat. I asked the girls who he was and what was going on, and they nonchalantly replied, ‘Oh, that’s Dr. Patterson – he likes to come and get his patients personally.’” Her story, a two minute recount, belies the admiration many felt – Dad’s humility and authentic realness was seen even in his work ethic – whereas most other physicians let the nurses call the patients, waiting if necessary for a nurse to be freed to do so, my father was not hung up on his title and instead, went out and personally greeted them and brought them back for the appointment. And for that, he was respected by the office staff and beloved by the patients. It’s a story I’ve heard many times before; the storyteller, however, is someone new.

I wonder if my father had any idea how many people he impacted.

There’s the woman who pulled him aside and showed him a picture of a beautiful little girl, a girl she might not have had if my father had not counseled her to cancel her abortion appointment six years prior; with tears in her eyes, she said, “Dr. Patterson, my daughter is the best gift I have; thank you.”

There’s the single mom with five children my father supported without any of us knowing; there are the families who received blessings from him financially or through the gift of a furnace or other appliance. My dad, not one to talk about his good deeds, as he lived by the rule, “Don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing” was ousted only when it became obvious his illness was terminal – people came out of the woodwork to thank him for his influence in their lives and to tell his children what kind of man their father was.

Dad, ever humble, always ascribed it to his relationship with Jesus. When he passed away, there was no doubt whom he served. And at his funeral, I realized that the only thing that mattered was my father’s relationships – with God, with his family, with his friends, with his colleagues and patients.

And it is for that reason that I return. My father loved his colleagues. I know because every night around the dinner table as a young child growing up, I would hear him warmly speak of them. I knew them by name. It is for this reason I feel connected to them as an adult, because they are the people my dad loved. And it is to honor his love for them that I seek them out. Not for my own sake, though I am enriched, but because by a small note, a “hello,” a touch, I remind them of his love for them.

–

In the span of a quick office visit, six people stopped me to ask me how I was and to speak warmly about my father.

It has been eight years since he practiced; over six since he passed away. Seasons come, seasons go, but to realize that my father’s life still has a lasting impact upon those he touched is a profound charge to me: when my time comes, will those who know me remember me with such love in their eyes because of the love I showed them?

Thanks for setting the bar, Dad. I love you.

“By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.”
- Jesus (John 13:35)

- Christen Patterson, August 2007