On Fathers

On February 7th 2020 in a raging snow storm, my father in law, Dr. Richard S Heilman, “Poppie” as the kids called him or Dick as most of the rest of the world knew him, passed away at the age of 85.

What I’ve realized in these long days since “Poppie” passed is that I have had two fathers for the past 30 years. I guess it’s in the name, “father-in-law” and perhaps for many men that is as close as it gets, the in-law part denoting the obligation to get along and the requirement to honor your spouse’s lineage. But as I struggled to write this for his service and to deal with the longing that comes with loss, I’ve certainly found out that I was far luckier than most.

March 7th 2020

It is wonderful to see so many familiar faces, so many friends, colleagues and relatives of Dick and Barb’s.  I get to start this celebration of Dick’s life this afternoon. While working on this service with Missy and Erica, I knew I had the best chance of getting emotional, so they volunteered me to go first.

For those of you that remember the obituary, I was not one of those boyfriends that stayed and talked to Dick for hours. My first memories were of him sitting alone in that wonderful yellow wing-backed chair, his throne, in the living room by the brick fireplace in Charlotte, reading the NYTimes before dinner.  Early on I found Dick to be a bit intimidating sort of a buoy that I had to learn to navigate among a sea of women.  Worse still, I was an introverted engineering student, land locked in my interests, with seemingly few inroads other than my grandfather’s connection as a fellow Radiologist. The Heilman family unit was tight and tough to break into.  But after 30 years I know how special a family they are and what it means to be part of them.

Though I didn’t have a lot to say to Dick early on, I always appreciated what a good listener he was, and the more he listened the more I started talking. Most of you in this room, at one point or another, sat with Dick and know what I am talking about.  Many of us sought medical advice.  I can tell you that he was right every time I sought his advice, well, almost every time. He did make a mistake diagnosing a broken bone or two. To be fair, Dick’s specialty in Upper GI Radiology didn’t cover much of the stuff I asked him about, but a couple of things were always true about his responses.

First, as I said, he always listened.  He was incredibly good at that.  Yes, there were times when his face gave away his thoughts, mostly around politics or property taxes, but he had a gift for listening in a way that offered confidence to the one talking.

Second, he never said anything to undermine the advice from someone else.  He asked thoughtful questions and listened to you talk through your options.

And finally, if he didn’t know much about the medical issue you asked about, he learned about it.  He researched it, found people he knew from his long list of trusted friends and colleagues, and helped you get what you needed to move forward. 

Dick taught me a lot about being professional. He treated his work with a level of dignity and purpose and never disparaged another doctor’s guidance, even if he disagreed with them. While he may have been disappointed at the growing corporate invasion of the doctor-patient relationship and associated quality of care, he loved his life’s work and showed the best example of what a doctor should be.

I have the unique perspective of being the son in law. I got to know Dick as he was winding down his medical career and winding up his grand-parenting career.  His curiosity was his greatest asset when it came to being a grandfather.  He approached this role with a similar sense of confidence and even-handedness, learning along the way, often from the grandchildren themselves.  In his first ever babysitting job, our oldest gave him pointers about how to change his diaper. “Tab in the back, Poppie, tab in the back”.  Dick told that story many times.  On another occasion, he let that same grandchild, now at 13 years, drive his skid steer, against our urging.  With a smile on his face and a confident calm demeanor, Dick taught Jeb to drive a construction vehicle, helping him realize a childhood dream. Be assured that safety was always on his mind, sometimes to a fault, like when he refused to let his adult daughter help him put a roof on the shed at camp. I don’t think she ever let him forget it…

True to form, Dick loved time consuming, complicated projects.  From constructing marine railways, to putting the water in at South Hero, or building osprey nesting platforms, Dick was always moving, working and tinkering.  There was one universal constant, however. He never seemed to have the right tool for the job or the exact materials required.  He always had something that could work, because he saved so much stuff, knowing they had a future use.  He had a plan, and he figured things out, sometimes against the odds.  I know some in the family did not believe his thrifty ingenuity to be his most endearing quality.  How we lasted with that Fisher Pierce Bearcat motor on the boat for so long is beyond me.

The places he created and called home with Barb are filled with wonderful examples of incredible craftsmanship.  The architecture, the Paintings, ship models, and those iconic Heisse steel birds that I’ve photographed at all times of the day. He appreciated great craftsmanship and craftspeople and never stopped trying to do things to his best, in his own special Dick Heilman kind-of-way.

On a visit to Maine this summer Dick and I took a ride up the coast toward Tennant’s Harbor on a beautiful summer afternoon.  He was probably looking for his next boat, his eternal quest, and I was up for the ride.  We parked near the boat landing at an ice cream store, and he agreed that a cone would taste good.  The portion size was so much larger than the small we’d ordered, and we walked out to look over the harbor. We could hardly carry on a conversation. The cones were melting so fast we had all we could do to keep the ice cream from running down our hands. What a sight! Two grown men with ice cream dripping everywhere, enjoying the view and sharing the moment, no words needed.

 We are here to celebrate a life well lived and a man well-loved and we are happy you are all here.   

A Heisse bird on the wall. South Hero, Vermont