Steve Normile

For 45 years, my dad has been a constant source of support for me. And now, for the first time, I’m writing about him in past tense. While Hazel and Ava chatted with me the other night, they asked me what I miss most about their Papa. I thought about it briefly and quickly realized the answer: conversations with him. 

Memories of conversations with my dad form a continuous thread through my life. I remember in vivid detail early childhood bedtime stories about how he built our house in Minnesota and his own childhood on Long Island. Fascinated by world history, he never ran out of historical narratives to share. An airplane mechanic by training, he was our own personal handyman who loved to include his daughters as he built and fixed things around our home. A gardening enthusiast, he loved spending time outdoors, and our yard felt like a peaceful oasis surrounded by trees and flowers he planted on the land he picked out as the perfect plot to build a home and raise his family.

As I became older, seeking his perspective helped guide the person I grew into. He always challenged me to be my best self, reach my highest potential, embrace resilience but also balance it with joy. The first moment that set me on a new path occurred the summer before my senior year of high school as we drove back to Minnesota from Long Island in my aunt’s old 1982 Toyota Celica, my first car. The journey across half the country not only provided ample opportunity to learn how to drive a manual transmission, but also to spend our overnight stop checking out potential colleges along the way. We arrived at Notre Dame after a long day of driving, the campus buildings beautifully lit under the already dark sky. I fell in love with Notre Dame in that moment. I went all in, and after getting accepted, he encouraged me to follow my Domer dreams even though it meant leaving Minnesota. 

His employment with the airlines meant I could fly back for free, and I always returned home when I could over holiday breaks and each summer. After many discussions about potential futures for a biochemistry major, I decided to apply to medical school. When I wavered about my acceptance at the University of Minnesota, he gently reminded me how lucky I was to get in. His guidance was never pressure, but wisdom, “if you think you want to go to medical school, it probably makes sense to take the spot.” I did. I’m so grateful I spent the most challenging part of my education a short drive from my family back in Minnesota. 

When I matched at UCLA, I again embraced another challenging transition with his support. And over time, as I realized California felt like the right place for me to call home, he helped me as I bought my house in Oakland and created a life for Hazel and Ava. As he was between jobs, he stayed for extended visits. He provided critical support during the haze of newborn twins, happily taking the midnight feed. When it came time to move into my house with two infants, he helped pack and move endless boxes full of baby gear. He inspected the new house, easily tackling many of the surprise fixes that come with home ownership. 

Shortly after I moved to California and started my residency, he started having symptoms of Parkinson’s. For the past 18 years, he never viewed the diagnosis through the lens of its limitations. He continued to push to live his life to its fullest. He received outstanding care through a local Parkinson’s specialty clinic, which he cited as a source of support as his symptoms progressed. 

Just before Thanksgiving last year, he fainted and sustained multiple injuries including a head bleed and multiple rib fractures. Despite this intense setback, he remained determined. He walked back and forth in the halls of the hospital with me and one evening when I extended sympathy that things were so incredibly challenging, he thoughtfully replied, “you play the cards you’re dealt, not the ones you want.”

Dad, you were dealt some tough cards. And yet, you never let those hold you back. You focused on how you could best leverage the cards you were given. You showed me how steady resilience can build a beautiful life with any cards. The house you built has served as an anchor for our family, just as you did, for my entire life. 

When I was a toddler, you gave me the gift of the Beatles, a love we shared since I discovered how to play your old records in the basement. I have had the same favorite song since those days, when I would set up the blankets and chairs and give a “concert” to my imaginary audience. It’s the song you sang to mom when you started dating. It’s a song I’ve sung to Hazel and Ava as a lullaby since they were born. And it is the song that came on the Beatles instrumental playlist as your breathing became shallow on the afternoon of June 5th. I sang it to you for the final time. A few moments later, as we held your hands, you took a final breath. You put down your cards, and left this life peacefully. I will miss our conversations terribly.