The phone rang one evening in April 2016. The caller-id read “David Rasco.” That was nothing unusual. We talked about every week and a half or so. I called him my “step-dad” because “my mom’s ex-boyfriend who raised my brother and I and is still in our lives” seemed too complicated. David came into my life when I was 10 years old. And despite the fact that he and my mother were only together 4ish years before their relationship ended (the first time), he still attended family functions for my brother and I and spent time with us. He was there for all the important stuff. Prom. Break-ups with my boyfriend. Graduation. A trip to emergency room after doing too much cocaine as a teenager. Getting clean. Meeting my first and second born at the hospital. My wedding. Family reunions. Helping with vehicles. And snow boots. You name it. He was there. I didn’t always like what he had to say or how he said it. But if you knew David Rasco, you knew to sit up and open your ears. For likely within the story he was about to tell you was some sort of sage advice.

I answered the phone and asked how he was doing. I received the usual response, “Not bad for a man of my age and talents.” He asked about the girls, about work, life. And then told me the real reason for his call. He had had surgery the previous February to reconnect part of his digestive system that the doctors had separated for a while due to an illness. He had been living with an ileostomy bag for some time and was glad to get rid of it. I was there with his sister, Charlotte, the day of the surgery and all had gone well. Until some weeks later when David had difficulty keeping food or beverages down. Of course he went to the doctor, had some tests run and was calling to tell me the results. He had been diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He didn’t know much more than that, no stage had been given. Just that he needed to start treatment soon. Now, David had had cancer previously and treatment had gone well for that and he seemed outwardly optimistic about treatment for this.

I had a strong feeling that this would not be the same sort of situation. Based on my cursory research of this type of cancer, it seemed to be one of the deadliest. David and I chatted again a few days later, his optimism still fairly high. But he was tired. The doctors had to put in a feeding tube so that he could receive fluids and nutrition and be strong enough for treatment. A turning point for me came during another phone call in early May. I had called David to check in on my way home from shopping in Keene. He seemed different. Maybe resigned to the fact that this recent diagnosis was far beyond his control. I felt this strong sense to pull my car over and just listen to him. I remember pulling into the dirt drive of a church that doubles a preschool that my children attended on Rt. 32. As I put my car in park I could feel warm tears start streaming down my cheeks. I knew it wouldn’t help him to hear me cry. I stifled my sobs as he told me “I don’t want to go. I’m not ready to go. But at the end of the day, when I look back at my life it’s been pretty great. I’ve opened and operated a successful business. I have raised four successful kids (he has two biological daughters from his only marriage in addition to counting Mark and I as his kids).  I have a tribe of great grandkids. And I loved a few women. What more could I ask for?”  He made a lot of sense. A lot. But it marked a turn in his journey for me and I knew I needed to see him more. I knew our time was very limited and I needed to make the most of it. I decided to start making the 7 hour trip up to Machias to see him as often as I could. My first trip was about a week after that phone call.

Our visits weren’t but a couple hours each time. David tired easily and slept a lot. I would run to the store for him if needed, but mostly I just sat there with him while he told me stories and petted his dog, Kylie. I would find other things to do while he slept or got rest and would go back to check on him later.

My second trip was where I received some of the best advice, in a roundabout way.  It was Father’s Day weekend. And while my girls and I normally do something fun to celebrate the awesome Dad that my husband is, I knew in my heart this was my last opportunity to spend Father’s Day with David. I suggested to my brother that we take him up to camp and go fishing. David and I sat at his little round kitchen table chatting, me with my Dunkin’s coffee, him with a cigarette, just chatting as we waited for Mark to pick us up.  He was talking about welding and different things he has worked on over the years. He brought out this little piece of art that reminds me of a dragon. He explained that he welded it together out of bits and pieces of scrap metal. And that he had hand painted it. I could NEVER have imagined David hand painting anything. If you knew David, you knew his hands were the size of bear paws. A cigarette in his fingers looked like a string, let alone a tiny paintbrush. He asked me if I’d like to have it…of course I would! I would keep it on my deck with my summer plants! He mentioned a few other cool things he had made by welding them together and how he enjoyed the process of being creative and giving something that looked like “junk” new life. So many things made sense at this point. David could fix just about anything WITH anything. He was known as one of the best, if not THE BEST diesel mechanic in New England. The man really did have some talent and creative ideas. When I asked why he stopped creating things he enjoyed, he became really serious and said “I got caught up trying to make a living. Making money. Eventually I stopped welding fun stuff like that guy. I didn’t go to the races as much. Hell, I haven’t been fishing in I don’t know how long.” This flayed me. A man who worked hard to support my brother and I, who weren’t even his responsibility, a man who gave to any alcoholic or addict who walked through the door and needed help, who would give his last dollar to anyone who needed it…stopped doing things he loved long before that day.  I saw a phrase on a wooden sign at my sister-in-law’s once that said “Don’t get so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.” I spoke those words out loud and David said “Exactly. Yes. Make sure you do the fun stuff. With your girls. Your husband. And even on your own.” 

That conversation haunted me. I had been so busy for so many years doing for other people that I felt guilty even going to the gym to take care of my body. I felt guilty going for coffee with a friend. Or trying a new dance class. I knew that day that he had shared one of the greatest parts of his legacy with me. When he passed away two months later, he did so peacefully with his sister, his daughter, Mark and I by his side. I opted to speak at his service about this legacy and what a great Dad he had been to Mark and I in the absence of our own. I did my best to show up for him the way he had shown up for me for 26 years. And I promised that his words were not in vein. I would do the fun things. I would find the joy. I would seek the magic. In fact, I had already started, the previous few trips before his passing I made it a point to do something that would be fun or enjoyable or new. So when he would need rest, I made other plans. This would help soften the emotional toll of seeing him quickly shrink from a robust, strong man into a shell of the one we knew. I needed those joyful things. I took a beautiful ride in a side by side with an old friend up to the Whitneyville trestle. I learned how to shoot a weapon. I watched the sun come up over the ocean while enjoying coffee with a dear friend. I watched the sun set over the ocean with my Mom.  I combed the beach for sea glass. I spent time with my other family members. Having honest conversations…sometimes tough conversations. Sometimes recalling memories and laughing hysterically.

I think of David every day. Several times a day. He is always nearby and likes to leave undeniable signs such as coins from heaven, but more often rusty pieces of scrap metal near my car. If you know you, you know and can laugh out loud at this.

So, to anyone reading this. I implore you. Find the joy. Seek the magic. Do the thing. Life is short. Make it an adventure. And don’t get so busy making a living you forget to make a life.