Like one of the characters in the hit musical Hamilton, the author, a divorced father of two, was once “young, scrappy and hungry.” He wasn’t about to throw away his “shot” by being somewhere else other than where the action was. But he soon relented, ending up eating his own words, to be nearer his growing sons. And looking back at it now, he realized that he never really threw away that shot, “at least, not the one that truly matters.”
“A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.”
—Eudora Welty
“A picture can tell a thousand words, and a few words can change its story.”
―Sam Wiseman
Text and photos by Dr. Jay Mobo
Of father and sons, popsicles, and cookies
I cut Peter’s cord when he was born. That was my first, maybe second, act of fatherhood. But I never got the chance to repeat the rite of passage with Christian three years later. Instead, Peter and I were walking around the hospital when he was born via an emergency Cesarean section. Peter wanted to pick leaves and flowers for his mom and baby brother. I was silently breaking down. But Peter’s hand squeezing my fingers kept me from falling apart.
Having been born at 30 weeks and three days (short by nine to 10 weeks to be considered a full-term baby), Christian weighed barely three pounds. He stayed for some time in the neonatal ICU hooked up to a breathing machine and a tube for feeding.
“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away,” someone wise once said. True and truly sage. But for Christian, during those pivotal weeks, it was precisely the number and the depth of breathing that predicted life or its grim opposite. Those breathless moments could neither be too long nor too often.
In the ensuing five weeks, Christian summoned all his will and grit to be able to breathe and feed on his own.
Peter, on the other hand, had mostly managed to stay out of the hospital. Except when he fell while climbing and carousing. His day-care teacher called me at the office. Brenda nervously informed me that he sustained a cut on his scalp. I immediately rushed to where he was and carried him to Yale Pediatric Emergency Department, which was across from the day care.
After a quick assessment, Peter got two staples to close the laceration. The doctors kept us for observation. Peter looked frail, as I held an ice pack over his head. Then, a genius pediatrician asked him in a hushed voice if he wanted a treat. He immediately perked up, got up, walked with the good doctor, and came back with a Cheshire cat smile and a popsicle.
They might have started at different points, but both are coming along nicely as young adults.
Around this time last year, they surprised me with a box of assorted cookies. They were leaving for Taiwan that night and would, therefore, be halfway around the world on Father’s Day. I understood the need to explore the pre-COVID-19 world. But first we celebrated.
I still remember the pine nut and almond cookies were particularly exquisite. As we nibbled on them, I was most cognizant of the fact that the ambrosia was matched only by the goodness and sweetness of the givers.
We celebrated Christian who had just graduated with honors from Kobe Bryant’s old high school. He also won the pairs rowing at the Philadelphia City Crew Championships a few weeks prior. Christian has since completed his first year at Temple University in the Honors Program as a pre-medical student. I have no doubt he will be a great, even keeled, compassionate, and decisive physician in times of medical crises.
After coming back from Japan in the summer of 2018, Peter decided to shift his focus from pre-med to business. Socrates, Plato, and I were proud of how he continuously examined his life and shifted his sails accordingly. Peter has since graduated with honors with a degree in biochemistry and a certificate in entrepreneurial management. He is hoping to become a human rights lawyer one day.
The adage about constancy of change in life applies to the vicissitudes of fatherhood. Fatherhood is not easy, predictable, or undemanding. Life itself is not. Yet, despite the hand life has dealt us along the way, Peter and Christian have grown into smart, loving, funny, big-hearted, conscientious, and conscious young men. For that, I thank the gods of good fortune and cookies, and the emperor of popsicles and ice cream.
Throwing away my shot
Several months ago, before the SARS-CoV2 upended life as we knew it, I watched the brilliant and revolutionary play, Hamilton. I had listened to the Ron Chernow tome and the companion audiobook by Lin-Manuel Miranda. Yet despite doing my homework, I struggled to follow the rapped words. But, one song, “My Shot,” stuck with me. Part of the lyrics included: “I’m young, scrappy and hungry…And I’m not throwing away my shot.”
A week before the play, Peter confided in me. “I hated you, Dad,” he said. My heart sank. “I did not want a weekend father,” he added. I would be lying if I said I was not upset but I understood. He was referring to the time when I took a job at Beth Israel Deaconess in Boston and they were unable to come with me. Like Hamilton, I was young, scrappy, and hungry. I was moving from Yale to Harvard and I was not going to throw away my shot. The hope was to settle in and, then, find a suitable housing after he and Christian finished the school year in Darien, Connecticut. He was in middle school; Christian was in elementary.
But, then, life happened. They went down to suburban Philadelphia, some 300 miles and six hours of driving away.
I was able to visit them in Philadelphia every other weekend. But I knew I had to be closer to them. So I risked throwing away my shot by telling my superior my intention of looking for a job near Philadelphia. To my surprise and delight, Beth Israel Deaconess was understanding, kind, and generous to me. I was allowed to take the Friday afternoon off to start the long drives. After a few months I was able to secure a job that allowed me to move to suburban Philadelphia.
On February 28, 2013, I left Boston. After settling down, I had them over for dinner. We did not have a big celebration but just being with them was pure bliss. I knew they appreciated the sacrifices I have made to be a mile away from their home. Funny thing was, Peter asked me in a whispered voice how much my new salary would be. I told him. After few minutes, he came back to my room with furrowed forehead. “Dad, do you think you will get promotions soon?” I asked why. “Well, I am not sure you can afford to send Christian to college with a $23,000 salary.” I smiled. Somehow, I had done something good.
I started picking up Peter from his crew practice on most weeknights and Saturdays and attending his Sunday regattas. When it was Christian’s turn to row, I did the same. We resumed our regular weekly dinners and occasional movies. And I would have them for most weekends.
–Eudora Welty
If Peter still hated me then, he did not give any indication. He was his usual kindhearted and funny self. The same was the case with Christian. Neither gave me any millennial angst or righteous indignation. Both did very well in high school and got into the honors program in the university.
Seven years later, I remain grateful to Beth Israel Deaconess. But I look back without remorse at my decision to throw away my shot at Harvard.
“I hated you, Dad.” Peter said again. This time there was no hint of lingering resentment. “I love you.” He had said it a thousand times, but that time was a bit more special. Then, he paid me his best compliment: “And you have been a better Dad”.
Someone once said: “Sons are born to make their fathers better men.” I am not sure I have changed for the better, but hopefully, I have for good. But this I know now: I never really threw away my shot, at least not the one that truly matters.
To my sons on Judgment Day
There will be no pine nut, or almond, or any cookie this year because life has a peculiar way of defining itself. And there is that puny, bigot, and racist virus with a Napoleonic complex. But, at least, we will be together. And that is enough.
To memorialize this year’s Father’s Day, I wrote a little poem inspired by Paul Kalanithi’s “When Breath Becomes Air”.
―Sam Wiseman
To My Sons on Judgment Day
When you come to that moment
You must account for your ways,
Of what to the world you’ve meant,
Been, done, become, set ablaze;
Discount not–I pray– the bliss
You gave that filled the abyss.
Fatherhood, I think, is not as much an art as it is a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants trade. It is a do-it-yourself and nose-to-the-grindstone trade that does not come with a manual. But, every now and then, square pegs do fit in round holes. The rest is merely tweaking. It might take a while. But get better, it does.
It is forgiving of rookie mistakes and provides opportunities for redemption. Fatherhood, ultimately then, is a life sport where the good guys– however imperfect — get to finish first. And, if you are truly lucky, you might just get a double rainbow at the end.
Dr. Jay Mobo is a father of two young adult sons. He is board-certified in both Internal Medicine and Occupational and Environmental Medicine and received a Master of Public Health at Yale. In his spare time, he likes to dabble in photography and writing.
