If you’ve ever been a waiter, you know it’s a fast-paced job. If you doubt that, check out the staff the next time you’re dining at a popular restaurant on a Saturday night. For sure, it’s a left-lane profession, but along with the hustle, there is down time, too, like sharing stories at staff meals and hanging out after work. I remember those times fondly, especially at Tavern on the Green, which had waiters hailing from Kentucky to Singapore. We talked about all sorts of subjects—books, films, travel, and politics. One time, someone posed a group challenge: name a truly life-altering experience. A flood of interesting responses followed, everything from getting fired to witnessing a volcanic eruption. For me, two stood out: losing a parent and raising a child. At the time, I was only twenty-three, decades away from actually having those experiences. Nevertheless, I acknowledged, at least theoretically, their potentially monumental impact. Forty-six years later, having known both in practice as well as in theory, I want to share two stories that illustrate why I suspected then, and believe now, that losing a parent and raising a child are, indeed, among the most life-altering experiences we can have.
The first story is about my mother. It was early Spring in 1997 and she was very ill, near the end. Fortunately, I was on Spring Break, so I moved back home to help out in any way I could. One morning, it was a gorgeous day, sunny and unseasonably warm. Our house had a beautiful sunporch, fully enclosed in glass with a polished flagstone floor. My mom was bedridden, but she wanted to enjoy a cup of tea on the porch, so she asked if I would carry her there. I said sure and went to the kitchen to boil the water. Some backstory here: When I was in high school, I was a real gym rat; in fact, I worked out every single day. Hard to believe, isn’t it? My mom, who was a very practical, no-nonsense woman, used to kid me about it. She always said, “So much wasted energy! Why don’t you find something useful to do?” My standard reply: “Mom, go away.” Fast forward to Spring Break. I poured the tea, returned to the bedroom, scooped up my mom, and headed down the hallway to the porch. Along the way, she let out a little laugh. “What’s so funny?” I asked. She replied, “What do you know. All that weightlifting—it finally serves a purpose.”
The second story is about my older daughter Delilah. It was 2012; she was four. We were living just outside Princeton, next to the Terhune apple orchard. In the garage, my wife and I had tossed some empty duffle bags (unzipped). Unbeknownst to us, a raccoon crawled into one and made its nest. Like her mother and grandmother, Delilah loves animals, so when she saw the raccoon, she tried to pet it. It nipped her on the hand and then scurried into the nearby woods. Without a way to catch it, we took our daughter to Princeton Hospital for rabies shots. The image of her lying on an ER examination table in her Dora the Explorer underwear, towered over by three doctors in lab coats (one brandishing a long needle) is forever etched in the deepest recesses of my mind. Just the thought of it now triggers a flood of emotions, mostly feelings of near-panic and complete helplessness. However, we all got through it together and returned home to rest and recover. A few days later, I held Delilah in the crook of my arm and walked her around the garage. I was trying the old climb-back-up-on-the-horse approach to help my daughter face her trauma and get back to normal. As I held her, I said that she didn’t need to be afraid. She replied, “I’m not afraid.” Somewhat taken aback by her confident tone, I asked, “Why not?” She answered, “Because you’re here, Daddy.”
When I finished a rough draft of this essay, I passed it to a friend and asked what connection she saw between the two stories. She replied, “In both, you hold someone in the crook of your arm.” I laughed at that, but it also reminded me of the temptation we all have to over-sentimentalize our stories, to airbrush out anything that might undermine the radiant glow we often seek to elicit from our audience. To that tendency, I must plead mea culpa. Neither one of my stories has a hint of the turbulence I’ve known (and have occasionally caused) in my roles as father and son. Moreover, their feel-good endings belie the fact that I couldn’t save my mom, and my assurance of safety to my daughter did not extend beyond the comfy confines of the family garage. When I really think about it, the stories I’ve told here are diametrically opposite. That moment with my mom remains one of my deepest sorrows; the one with my daughter remains one of my greatest joys. However, when I sat down to write about life-altering experiences, they were the very first memories that came to mind. Notwithstanding their differences, what they have in common (besides the crook of my arm) is the powerfully illuminating revelations they both yielded. With my mom, I saw my past, and how she had given everything she had to help guide me to a life of purpose and fulfillment. With my daughter, I saw my future, and how I might give to her (and her sister) the same.
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To contact the author: Mr. Keating
Author photo by Anthony "Truncs" Truncale '26