My dad was a uniquely incredible man. He passed in 2023. I wrote this back then and kept it to myself. It’s his birthday today, and I’d like this to live here now.

I know most have a special relationship with their father. That doesn’t stop me from feeling lucky about mine. My intuition is Dad and I had something pretty rare.

Dad and I could go any amount of time without talking and be completely unaffected. There were times we went 3-4 months, and when we reconnected we’d start right where we left off — usually something about fishing or the nature of time. Zero hesitation, just trust + a loving understanding of each others’ lives. Our bond just “was” (is) and it didn’t need to be nurtured to be unshakably strong. I now understand how special that is.

When we did bond, he set a standard I’m trying to mimic as I parent. He stoked curiosity, challenge, and silliness. One of my core memories is sitting with him in a restaurant in Crested Butte after a long day of skiing (we’d always ski until the last run of the day, timing it so we catch the very last chair back up, only talking on the lift, with chocolate power bars crammed into every zipper of our jackets so we didn’t have to stop to eat). He picked up the restaurant’s metal napkin holder in one hand and a ketchup bottle in the other and used them as props while asking me

If this train leaves this train station at the speed of light…and a guy who’s standing at the station shines a flashlight towards the train as it goes…what happens? Does the train see the light???

A day like that was hard to top. I went to bed physically and mentally sated. Exhausted, and excited for the next one.

I’ll forever focus on giving such days to my kids.

Anybody who knew him will immediately get it when I mention the feeling of being around Dad.

I’ll do my best to explain why. It’s taken me 4+ decades to realize these pieces of what made Dad dad. I’ve come to understand him better as I try to mimic certain parts (unfortunately his annoyingly photogenic smile is beyond my grasp).

Dad combined three epic traits in one package:

1. …he was brutally, brilliantly competent at whatever he focused on,
2. …he was unflinchingly eager to help those around him the moment they needed it, and
3. …he did it all while infusing silliness and fun on everyone, no matter the situation.

We consider ourselves lucky when a friend has just one of these. Find someone with one, and you feel an urge to pull them in close. Two? A gem. If I pick two of those traits, close my eyes, and picture such a person… How many honestly exist?

How do I get across the feeling of being around someone with all 3? The best I can do is to draw a picture of him in his life’s defining role (outside of family): as an ER doctor.

1. Brutal competence

Dad was one of those doctors surrounded by stories that blurred into legends. I’d go with him to the ER every single shift he worked over the summers of my teenage years. I’d sit at the ER counter with an ancient laptop and just observe.

It felt like the ER’s walls bent to accommodate him as he walked around. He’d step in and instantly had everybody’s respect — not from fear or intimidation, just genuine appreciation. Patients, nurses, other doctors, janitorial staff. They called me “Doc Kamens’ son!” and treated the title like I’d earned a precious, well-deserved award.

You couldn’t watch him operate for 5 minutes and not just know he is good. Dad-in-the-ER exuded the type of excellence, intensity, and focus you feel watching clips of Kobe play basketball or Magnus play chess. He mastered things thoroughly enough to start innovating — he personally coded and launched one of the first electronic medical records companies in 1984 (which is still around!), his team helped change the way emergency physician groups organize and operate, he was on the bleeding edge of ER groups’ use of technology, and he was constantly reading the latest literature on the lookout for creative new approaches (a big believer in the powers of super glue for emergency medicine!).

He was a medical force, leaving a wake of appreciative patients and changed lives behind him.

2. Unflinchingly eager to help others

Not just brutally competent. Dad also had a seemingly unending source of empathy, especially when it came to others’ medical problems.

Call Dad when you have a medical issue and you’d get a top-notch doctor focused on you right then and there…who’d later read all the latest research about your situation…who’d send followup emails with all sorts of ideas…and would keep checking on you regularly for weeks afterward.

This wasn’t just special treatment for me. I’d see him get the calls whenever we were together. It wasn’t just me, it wasn’t just family, it wasn’t just extended family, it wasn’t just people in the town.

There was a whole sub-population out there surviving on Dad’s medical advice.

How many people was Dad supporting like this??? When he died, I joked that my biggest concern was for the welfare of the global healthcare system. I’m not convinced it can absorb the workload he was handling for free. (Say a prayer for the poor shmuck of a doctor who got bumped up to position #1 on my sisters’ medical speed dials.)

Dad’s infinite empathy for patients tickles my curiosity like a scientific mystery. Was it a genetic abnormality? Like the world’s tallest man? How otherworldly was he? Who else claims this? All the rest of my doctors hardly seem to have the time of day for anything, while Dad would spend hours researching cutting-edge medical literature for my old college friend’s brother’s cousin who’s worried about a rash.

I know the explanation is far more complex than “he just cared about you, Ben.”

I wasn’t there the (multiple) times he gave his shoes to barefoot patients and went home in socks.

I wasn’t there when he accepted a song as payment from a patient who couldn’t pay.

These stories follow him around like legends because that type of empathy is legendary. A couple weeks before he died, I decided to just ask. I was getting frustrated at work, struggling to remain empathetic, texted him:

Dad, question for you — When you were at peak ER doc activity, did you really maintain empathy for every patient? If so, how did you do it without tearing yourself apart / feeling too much pain yourself? Did you give yourself some separation?

It was getting late, and he texted me back —

Now those are some questions! I’m eating some dinner and will get back to you later

Unfortunately, that was towards the end and we didn’t have many “real” conversations after that. So I’m left to ponder the mystery of his bottomless doctor empathy just like he and I would ponder the nature of the universe.

One of my sadnesses about Dad’s final year is that we couldn’t get him to point this same empathy at himself. He lived a life of good health before his cancer, so he never really had to grapple with “seeing himself” and “being himself” while part of his body failed, until it really failed. I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.

He deserved to feel the fullness of pride that a man like him should feel at the end — especially a man who’s helped so many. It really, really sucked to see cancer take not just his health but also some of that. I will remember those hard moments as only a momentary blip in his full pride, a blip stuck between a life of helping others and a future of being remembered by us for such.

3. Silliness and fun, even in the ER

Now the capstone: Dad’s ability to infuse levity into any person and any problem.

It’s not easy to be both earnest AND fun-loving. To do serious, important, hard things AND still be silly.

I watched dad joke with patients as he healed them, getting a smile out of a terrified soul.

He would bring me in to do magic tricks for the ones he was stitching up.

All who loved him suffered his humor. We all know the dangers of skyhooks, the tragedy of trapped Chinese fortune cookie authors, and how funny farts can be. What time it is when you go to the dentist and where you took the shower and why Bingo ball B9 is a blessing and how to make toothpicks jump around. He never cared that we were half laughing with him and half laughing at him. It was all part of his intuitive, protective leadership.

He’d let me and my sister “secretly” cover his back with stickers whenever we sat behind him in the car, and then he’d spend hours “discovering” them one-by-one, much to his “frustration.”

He wanted you to find the world funny while he took care of you, and he was willing to use himself as the butt of jokes to do so.

One time he came home late from the ER and told me he’d mindlessly dropped his cell phone in his cup of coffee in the car (one of those Star-Tac ’90s things). That part I believe. What I don’t believe is that he was serious with his next suggestion: that we should try to fix it by putting it in the microwave to heat it up. He acted shocked when it melted — which kicked off an hour of us digging through old electronics in the garage to see what happens when we nuke them.

To be able to come home at midnight from a long ER shift, so tired that you drop your phone in your coffee and still exude such silly exploration with your teenage son is no small feat. It’s something I appreciate more and more as I try to emulate a piece of it for my kids.

I’m convinced his instincts as a healer connected him to the importance of laughter — and he doled it out as yet another protective gift for everyone around.

My Dad, Donald R. Kamens

I grew up loving my Dad, but only after being grown do I realize just how freakish an occurrence he was. Absurd capability, empathy, and silliness in one person.

I am so proud to be that freakish occurrence’s son. I hope I can exude even small parts of those traits for my kids. I will always try to honor these parts of my dad, who I love deeply, miss terribly, and endlessly look up to.