LUCKY MAN, GRATEFUL SON
by Jack Swersie
It was only three days after my Dad passed away on August 3, 2002 that I had to return to the stage. I had a two-day run with the Beach Boys at the Westbury Music Fair on Long Island. Even though I was greatly saddened by Dad’s passing, the full impact of my loss had yet to hit me. It would be a couple of days later when I would finally break down in uncontrollable sobbing as I thought about how much Dad had meant to me, how much he had given me, and how much I would miss him. The reality that Dad was gone was to smack me in the face like a ton of bricks.
In the meantime, I was trying very hard to find meaning in everything that had happened during the past two weeks, particularly the nine days that I was by Dad’s bedside as his health rapidly declined, and the minute or so he struggled for his last three breathes of air. I was trying to understand death...and life...and the human spirit. I knew that so much of Dad has always been within me and that there’s a lot more that he can and will offer me, even though he is no longer physically here. In short, Dad will always be with me. There is much comfort in that thought.
It was at the Westbury Music Fair, during the first night of my two-day run with the Beach Boys, that something quite poignant occurred. The significance of this event was that it allowed me to put my loss in some perspective and gave me a true appreciation of just how lucky my Dad was during his lifetime.
Allow me to backtrack...
I had a friend, not a great friend, but a guy I liked, and worked with several times. Comedian Glenn Super, known as "Mr. Bullhorn," was my age. I first worked with him back in the 1980’s at a comedy club in Houston, Texas. Since then I had shared the stage with him on a couple of cruise ships and had him over to my home on one occasion. I didn’t speak with him as much as I should have and news of his death from prostate cancer in September, 2001 completely shocked me.
Like myself, Glenn worked in concert with a lot of big stars, often booking dates that I probably would have been asked to do had it not been for his availability. I would have slight bouts of jealousy for his career (not unusual in show business,) but liked him very much just the same. Glenn, who frequently worked with the Beach Boys, was the talent who would have been opening the concert at Westbury that night had his life not been so prematurely cut short.
I was backstage and it was just five minutes before I was to begin my 25-minute show. I saw an older gentleman, about Dad’s age, walking up and down the backstage hallway and wondered who he was. He finally approached me and asked if I was the opening act. As I acknowledged that I was, indeed, the opener, we shook hands and he introduced himself. It was Glenn Super’s father!
Apparently Glenn had established a nice relationship with the Beach Boys and his father knew Mike Love and Bruce Johnson (the two remaining original members of the band) well enough to be invited backstage to see them.
When Mr. Super introduced himself to me, I expressed my deepest sympathy and told him how much I had liked Glenn and how saddened I was by his death, just short of a year ago. I only had a minute or so to chat with him before I had to go on stage, but it was enough time for him to start crying as he spoke of his son. The man was still grief-stricken over his lost son and it broke my heart.
At the same time, this chance meeting struck me as unusual. Here I was, the comedian opening for the Beach Boys that night. I lost my Dad just three days earlier and was in the process of grieving over my own loss. Now my life had mystically crossed paths with the still-grieving father of the comedian who I knew and who should have been performing that night. It seemed almost prophetic. The son who lost his father. The father who lost his son. Two heavyhearted souls mourning the loss of the one person they had bonded with most in life. Father and son.
I wanted very much to let Mr. Super know of my own personal loss, but felt that I did not want to, in any way, minimize his. I wondered if the grief I was feeling, and would continue to feel, could be anywhere near as deep as that of a father who had lost a son; a son he was just as proud of as my Dad was of me and I was of my Dad, and a son he had loved just as much as my Dad had loved me and as I had loved my Dad.
Fathers are not supposed to outlive their children and I could not imagine a greater sense of loss than that which Mr. Super was living. It’s a sense of loss that this poor man will feel everyday for the remainder of his own life, one which will offer him little peace and even less comfort. It’s a loss that he will be unable to walk away from for even the shortest period of time without something happening to remind him that his life is forever changed.
My life is changed forever as well, and I don’t minimize by own sadness by comparing my loss to someone’s even more tragic loss. But, what this new and unusual bond between Mr. Super and me serves to underscore for me is just how fortunate my Dad was throughout his life.
Like everyone else in this world of ours, Dad’s life was filled with ups and downs. Thankfully, mostly ups. Dad was in love with his wife for over 50 years and watched all four of his children grow up into healthy and successful adults. He was surrounded by his loving wife and children when he finally passed away on that hot and rainy Saturday in August. Yes, Dad was pained and discomforted by his illness, but never did he have to endure the deep emotional pain resulting from the loss of a child, a pain that could crush the inner spirit and forbid him to enjoy any facet of his existence. Poor Mr. Super will bear that heavy burden of loss for the rest of his life.
Physical pain and discomfort can be eased somewhat by the emotional support and love of those by your side. And Dad had plenty of that support and love. He knew that he was a good husband and a successful father. He loved his family and knew that his family loved him. He was at peace with his own life and his many accomplishments. And, most importantly, Dad knew that he would leave this world with his loving family intact.
That is why Dad was a lucky man and I am a grateful son.