The diploma
By Ros Psolka ’90

t was a sun-warmed October afternoon. My father wore his Black Watch tam-o’-shanter at the usual jaunty angle to shield his ever-sensitive eyes from any intrusive glare. As we often did, my mother and I wheeled him out to the nursing home grounds to enjoy a change of scene. But that day I had a special surprise for my dad, my best friend, who had suffered a massive stroke over five years ago that left him paralyzed on one side of his body.

This is a fate difficult for anyone, but a particularly sorrowful state for my father. My dad was a self-educated man who read everything he could get his broad, talented hands on. An artist by vocation and avocation, my father could craft beauty out of wood, stained glass and silver, out of oil, pastel and watercolor. Now stricken by physical catastrophe, he was left to bear his life without expression of many kinds.

And so, my mother and I visited him daily, attending to his needs, making sure he was comfortable and not feeling abandoned. After all, we could not phone him to check in. He had lost the ability to talk. Luckily enough, he was still able to understand a joke. I tried to make him smile as often as I could.

During this period in my life I witnessed much pain—mostly his—and desolation—mostly mine. It is not easy to see someone suffer, especially someone who had always supported my accomplishments, who made me laugh and taught me so much about life and creativity.

Perhaps his suffering motivated me to return to school. Surely, professional reasons compelled me to seek a master’s degree. But it was more the distraction of learning something new and perfecting the writer’s craft that spurred me. Rowan’s superb public relations program offered me a needed challenge. Although I had been “out of school” for 20 years, I trekked more than an hour’s drive to night classes on dark and winding roads. I was tired but happy to be productive in some way.

I pushed to finish the program in three years. I can remember proudly displaying my thesis to my father. My parents always took a great interest in my work, and I know my thesis would have been studied cover to cover had my father been able to read. You see, aphasia—the loss or impairment to use and comprehend words—affects reading as well as speech. Thus, this avid reader could no longer decipher words. Nevertheless I showed him the black binder. He smiled appreciatively. It was good enough for me.

Months later I received the official diploma. Different from my undergraduate “sheepskin,” this one was colorfully and masterfully printed. It might seem trivial to some, but I took special pride in this piece of paper. Mostly because juggling a full-time job, a family crisis and graduate studies had required a special effort. And I had succeeded.

As the sun lit up the fall foliage on the well-landscaped lawn, I showed my dad the “surprise”—the paper with the multi-hued crest certifying his daughter’s degree. No one in his family had gone this far. He glowed at the news, unread but well heard.

About a month later, he died. His long fight was over. Looking back, I have regrets as all children do. Are we ever what we’re expected to be? Could I have listened more, learned more of what he had to teach? These concerns are dimming with time. What remains bright is the memory of that autumn afternoon when my father, my mentor, shared in the joy of the diploma.

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Ros Psolka is a public relations writer/editor for the Office of Enrollment Management at The Richard Stockton College of New Jersey. A resident of Little Egg Harbor, she has also served as an adjunct professor of communications and composition at Atlantic Cape Community College and Stockton, respectively.