Story of Summer hits close to home
I stood at the edge of the pool, shivering slightly in my pink polka-dot swimsuit. Splashing, shouting children filled the water, but I hesitated at the deep end. To a 4-year old a swimming pool can seem as vast as the Pacific Ocean. “C’mon, Cindy Sue,” my dad urged. “I’ll catch ya.”
Squeezing my eyes shut and holding my breath, I took a leap of faith from the edge. My father caught me in his arms, just like he always did, because that’s what dads are supposed to do. I didn’t worry that my toes couldn’t touch the bottom. His did, and that’s all that mattered.
I’ve thought a lot about fathers lately due to the coverage of the homicide-by-abuse trial of Jonathan Lytle. Frankly, I usually skim over these types of stories. The details of the torture and abuse of children are just too hard for me to stomach. But this case hit close to home.
My brother-in-law, Darrol Hval, was the emergency room physician on duty the night Summer Phelps was brought into Deaconess Medical Center. He led the medical team’s efforts to revive the badly beaten child. Though she came in with no pulse and no breath sounds, the staff did what they were trained to, and then some. They fought for her – prayed for her, and despite all their efforts they couldn’t bring her back.
“After 20 minutes, I had to call it,” Darrol said, recalling that night.
He has five children of his own, including a little girl with blonde curls about Summer’s age. He’s been holding that daughter especially close these last few months. While Darrol is relieved the trial is over, he’ll never escape the memories of that night. In 15 years as an ER physician it was the worst case of abuse he’d ever seen. He doesn’t talk about it much. It’s hard to find words to convey the story he read on Summer’s small body.
No doctor wants to declare a child dead. No nurse can bear to pull the sheet up, and every person in the room that night felt like they failed Summer. But the person who really failed her was the person who was supposed to protect her and keep her safe – her father.
This failure is hard for most of us to comprehend, but for those of us whose dad’s were our heroes, it’s mystifying.
My friend recalls the last time she saw my father before his death. He’d taken my mom shopping and was waiting for her on a bench at the mall holding a carefully wrapped scented candle. “Whatcha got there?” my friend asked. “It’s a candle for Cindy,” he replied. “She’s had a hard week with all those boys, and I thought this would cheer her up.” I was 30 at the time, but Dad was still looking out for me. Because that’s what dads are supposed to do.
My own sons understand this. While going through some computer files I came across an essay my 16-year-old had recently written for his sophomore English class. This paragraph caught my eye, it was titled, “Reliance.”
“The person I most rely on in my life is my dad. … My dad is the one who took me to all my sporting events when I was younger and taught me how to become better. … He has played the most important role in my life and will continue to till the day I die. To me my dad has got to be the greatest man I’ve ever known.”
Summer Phelps didn’t need the greatest man – she didn’t need a superhero. All she needed was a dad who did what dads are supposed to do. If she’d had one, she’d still be alive.