Dad, when I was asked to write a letter commemorating your 80th birthday, I hesitated. As I was planning to save my best material for when you were dead. I’ve thought about your death often, the mandate for all attendees to come wearing running gear, the logistics of having to fit all of your grieving ex-girlfriends into one designated corner, and the agony of having to find a mourning dress cuter than my sister’s. I think about this day often, not because I wish for your demise, but because I'm uncertain about my identity without you. As the legendary prophet Stevie Nicks once wrote, “I built my life around you.”
In 1970, as an unassuming young (read: extremely hot!!!!) doctor, you came to Arizona in search of success.
You founded the Phoenix 10K, you infiltrated morning TVs, you proselytized about wellness in the papers, and your eponymous flu program vaccinated over half the Southwest, which ironically is almost as many women as you dated.
But that is only who you are on paper. Patients are aware of your sensitivity and caring nature, but strangers may only recognize you as the person who cut them off in a Ferrari with the license plate "I Run."
Your profound talent has always been your ability to motivate and push people to reach their full potential. Sometimes, your desire for them surpasses even their own. You are not just a physician; you are a hype man. And instead of selling shoes to put yourself through medical school, you really should have been a DJ on the bar mitzvah circuit.
From a Thanksgiving buffet at an all-inclusive resort to a high school production of Hello Dolly, you can make anything sound like it is the greatest, most exciting thing to ever happen. You've instilled me with this confidence my entire life, which, to my husband's dismay, has made me an absolute nightmare to live with. Because you convinced me that it would be insane for anyone not to love me, I always assumed that everyone was in love with me. Are they not? Actually, don’t tell me.
From jumping off a podium at the Phoenix 10k to resuscitating a collapsed runner fifty yards from the finish line to spending forty-five minutes resuscitating a man in cardiac arrest on a flight from Phoenix to New York, I’ve seen you in superhero mode more times than I can count.
I've watched you diligently work toward every accomplishment, never once losing focus or taking a break. Your discipline, drive, and obsessive, unmedicated neurosis have inspired my own need to constantly strive for excellence.
While you have set the bar unrealistically high, you never made me feel ashamed to fail. In fact, you taught me that I needed hardships to grow and that tenacity will always trump natural talent.
As a father, I never heard you cuss or yell. You always maintained your cool, even when I got arrested for a curfew violation at fourteen. You were even able to laugh when, at sixteen, I mistakenly left my car abandoned on the side of the road because I thought it was broken, but in reality, it simply needed gas.
You funded my college education and even my apartment for years longer than I care to admit. If you were to teach a college class on a subject other than medicine or entrepreneurship, might I suggest the delicate art of financially supporting a child while simultaneously making them feel riddled with guilt about accepting your money. Currently, my kids seem far too comfortable spending my cash, and I am in desperate need of whatever Pythagorean theorem might course-correct this issue.
Of all the people I've written about (against their will), you are by far my most challenging subject. Perhaps I’m unable to distance myself enough to confidently capture your full essence. Or perhaps I don’t feel comfortable with how vulnerable talking about you makes me feel.
You are my father, the man who taught me what to expect from all other men and the template that guides me as I raise my two sons.
Your legacy, rich with value, endures far beyond your material achievements, accolades, or rock-hard abs. Ultimately, it is the strength of your character and the depth of your love that define you in my eyes and leaves an indelible impression. Happy birthday. And I’m really glad you aren’t dead yet.
Love,
Jenny
Jenny Mollen is an author, comedian and Dr. Art Mollen’s favorite daughter. She resides in NYC with her sons, Sid and Lazlo and her poodle, Wolfgang. She also has a husband. instagram.com/jennymollen