DAD

Trying to remember when it started. Just a few years ago, I think. I remember hearing something from Dad. Something about something growing in his stomach. Had to have tests periodically to watch it. An aneurysm. Didn’t think much of it. Kind of like a balloon. The more it’s blown up, the worse it is. If it gets too big, it might burst. That’s why they’re watching it. I always thought an aneurysm was just a weakening in the wall of a vein or artery. I didn’t picture a balloon when I thought about that. More like a diagram in a science book. An artery drawn where one side has a narrower line. Anyway, like I said, didn’t think much of it.

Every time we’d come to visit, he’d give us the progress report. It’s grown; it hasn’t grown. Then it’s grown a lot. Almost to the point where we have to do something. That’s when I started paying attention. Do what? When?

Dad, what a great guy. He and Mom met when she was in the eighth grade. He was a junior in high school. We’ve heard the story a hundred times. He was new to the neighborhood; playing football in Folger’s field with his brother, Bob. Mom and her friend, Stella, had come to check them out. Stella liked the blond one best, but Mom liked the dark-haired one. Greenie, they called him, because he always wore a green shirt. It stuck. He was called that all his life.

Mom’s family had some money; Dad’s didn’t. He slept in a bed with his grandmother. He was always small and skinny, but full of inner strength. The caption under his high school senior picture read, “Little, but mighty”.

World War II started and Dad enlisted. Mom wrote him everyday—sent him hundreds of pictures of her in the backyard doing sexy poses. All of them still in the albums I looked at constantly when I was young. Then pictures of them together with him in his uniform. So handsome! The two of them—kids. So long ago.

While Dad was away overseas, Mom was in college at Mary Manse, an all-girls college, majoring in piano. They all had boyfriends fighting in the War. They formed lifelong bonds as they talked about their men, giggled and smoked. Schoolgirls. So young. One of the boyfriends died. Life wasn’t all fun and games—it was serious, sad and poignant.

Dad was there on the island, Tinean, with the Enola Gay and the bomb. There’s a picture of it in the scrapbook. He put radar in planes and repaired it when it broke down. He knew Morse code. He tried to teach me when I was young. Da-dit-dit. I don’t remember what letter that is. I was in awe. Dad learned how to send messages with it, but he never did that in the service. He was color blind so he was rejected. It’s a good thing as the communications experts were often in the belly of the plane—the most dangerous place to be.

The love story continued. The War ended, Greenie came home and they were married. They couldn’t wait—the wedding was only a few days after Mom’s graduation from college. No college for Greenie—something that bothered him all his life although it certainly didn’t stop him from being successful. They settled down and started a family. Their first baby died—how sad! They named her Carla. Something wrong with her lungs. They liked the name so much they named the second girl that too. I was third, Deanne, and then came my sister, Terry. After three miscarriages, the babies continued to come—Carl (finally a boy), Joe and Andra. They were good Catholics who didn’t believe in birth control.

I have a wonderful family. We have been very lucky over the years. It almost seems impossible that, except for little baby Carla, death has not touched us. Of course my grandparents had died, but they had lived good, long lives. We all grew up, got married, got divorced, had kids. Mom and Dad grew old together. Dad celebrated his 80th birthday a few years ago. Last summer we celebrated their 57th wedding anniversary.

We had known at Christmas that the operation was getting closer. The doctor had told Dad that he could decide during his visit in August. There really wasn’t much of a decision. Have the operation or die when the aneurysm burst which it surely would do shortly. We read a flyer about the operation. Rodney Dangerfield had had it and is now the spokesperson for it. Lucille Ball had died when hers ruptured.

My two girls and I made our annual trip to Ohio over the fourth of July. Dad was looking feeble, as he had hurt his back some months previous while trying to retrieve a golf ball from a pond. Up until his back injury, he had been pretty spry. He did have some health issues, angioplasty a few years ago, high blood pressure, high cholesterol and diabetes. But he was by no means a doddering old man. He bragged that he had shot a 79 when he was 79. He was an excellent golfer, something we all aspired to be. After he retired, golf was his life. He once told me that if he couldn’t play golf anymore, he wouldn’t want to live. He hadn’t been playing since he had hurt his back.

It was harder than usual saying goodbye. Dad always got teary. The rest of us had to fight not to break down. He hugged me extra hard. He waved as we drove away. I remember wondering if that would be the last time I would see him alive.

I talked to Mom after Dad’s August doctor visits. The surgery was scheduled for September 9th. The aneurysm had grown. The doctor assured us there was only a 3% to 4% chance that Dad wouldn’t make it through the operation.

I called Mom on September 5th and got Dad. Mom was at church. It was Carla’s birthday. Dad told me she always goes to Mass on each of our birthdays—something I never knew for the whole of my 53 years. I had a long conversation with Dad—rare for a phone call. For once he wasn’t looking at his watch and warning me how much it was going to cost. We talked about the operation—he was scared. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to live that much longer. He wasn’t looking forward to getting older. He told me he wouldn’t mind dying if it weren’t for the grandkids. We called him again Sunday night. He was going into the hospital on Monday. Each of the kids talked to him and told him “good luck”. I talked to him last and said a tearful “goodbye”.

Carla was driving up from Cincinnati to stay with Mom during the operation. My thoughts weren’t far from Dad all day. I dashed off a prayer every chance I had. Finally, the word came by email. The operation had been a success; he was resting comfortably. The weight lifted. I could breathe again. The next day, however, I received a different email. It was from Terry. Dad’s stint from a previous operation had collapsed. Luckily, because he was in the hospital, it was repaired right away. No need to worry, but more prayers required. My heart sank. The roller coaster ride had begun.

Mom gave me a phone number for the ICU. I called twice a day. One day Dad would be getting better, the next day they were worried he hadn’t shown enough improvement. He was getting dialysis, something Dad had dreaded and feared. He was being ornery—he was pulling out tubes. His hands were tied down. My family camped out in the waiting room. They were there day and night. The first few days after the operation, he was on a ventilator and so was doped up with drugs. It was a big day when they took the tube out of his throat. I was looking forward to talking to him once he got out of the ICU. I expected lots of improvement. He was talking a little. Kissed Mom and told her how much he loved her. Extended his arms in a big hug meant for all of us.

It was my birthday, September 20th. I came home from taking Andrew and Ali to their guitar lesson. Ed greeted me at the door. He looked somber. He told me my sister Terry had called. Dad was having trouble breathing. No, this can’t be happening. I called frantically. Terry was crying. They wanted to put him back on the ventilator. We all agreed Dad wouldn’t want that. The doctor said Dad wouldn’t live past the next few hours. The family remained firm. I cried off and on throughout the day. Every time the phone rang I panicked. That phone call never came. I called Mom in the early evening. Dad was hanging in there. No call during the night either. Tentatively I called the ICU on the 21st. Dad was still alive; was even doing better. A miracle!

My brother Joe from Florida flew up. The days marched by like they always do. Every time I called I would get a different story—sometimes good, sometimes not so good. Some nurses gave hardly any information. Others were quite loquacious. I called the waiting room and talked to Mom, Joe, Terry, whoever was there. Dad’s breathing was still pretty bad—he had developed pneumonia. He wasn’t strong enough to cough up the fluid that filled up his lungs. I debated—should I fly up there? After a week or so, I decided to go. I’d never forgive myself if Dad died and I didn’t go just because of the money. It seemed pretty petty--$359 to see your Dad one last time.

I arranged to fly up on Friday and come back on Monday. I’d miss only one day of work. I made the reservations on Monday. It was a long week. I continued to call the hospital. Some days it seemed he might die before I got there. Other days there was good news—he seemed stronger; he was fighting. At some point Dad received the Sacrament of the Sick from a priest at the hospital. Mom thought he was a little better after that. But as more time passed, I heard in an email from Carla that Mom was getting a little perturbed with God for taking so long to make Dad better. Brother Carl told Brother Joe—see Mom even tries to control God. Joe quipped back that Carl should have told her God was old enough to make his own decisions. The levity definitely helped.

On Thursday I got more bad news. Terry called me at work. They were going to put Dad back on the ventilator. I was shocked. Why? We had decided he wouldn’t want that. The doctors had convinced everyone that it would give Dad’s body time to rest and recover. He had been unable to sleep because of his labored breathing. So I was with them—it sounded reasonable. The doctors planned to put the tube back down his throat, sedate him and let him sleep for three or four days. The only unfortunate thing, I wouldn’t be able to communicate with him. Would he even know I was there? Should I wait until he was better? What if he didn’t get better? I decided to go as planned.

I flew from Dallas to Chicago Midway and then on to Toledo. Even though the sun was shinning and it was a beautiful, if a bit cold, day, my plane was delayed for about two hours. When I arrived in Toledo, there was no one there to meet me. I waited outside for at least a half hour before my brother, Joe, screeched to a stop in front of me. He had been to one of the twins’ volleyball games and had lost track of time. We went straight to the hospital.

Mom and Carla were in the waiting room. It was much like I had pictured it. We had talked a lot by phone over the past few weeks, but it was good to finally be there talking to them in person. I had struggled being away with my heart there the whole time. I had so wanted to be involved. Mom was being so brave and unselfish. She amazed me. Through the whole ordeal she thought only of Dad and what he would want. I braced myself to go in to see him.

He was sleeping, of course. He looked small and frail lying there with tubes in his nose and mouth and machines all around him. Did he know I was there? I had to believe that he did. I talked to him—we all did. We reassured him that we loved him. I told him how I had flown all the way from Dallas just to see him. It wasn’t so bad. Even though it was strange to see him in this room, in this condition, he was still Dad. Joe talked to him about his kids. He made jokes just like he always does. I started feeling better. Dad was still breathing; his heart was still beating. The machines were keeping him alive now, but surely he would survive all this.

I only had a couple days. I spent nearly the whole time at the hospital. We played bridge and ate mostly. We’d go in to see Dad every hour or so. Never any change—but then we weren’t expecting any. He was sleeping and getting his strength back, doing just what he was supposed to be doing. We talked to him and held his hand. Once when Terry and I were at his bedside, we told him he would be better in no time. In his sleep, he violently shook his head, No. We wondered if it was just a fluke. He often made faces and moved in strange ways because he was uncomfortable with the tubes.

I spent time with my brother, Joe, who I hadn’t seen in three years. I came to realize he’s a really nice man. He’s trying to do the best he can each and every day, just like Dad. He kind of “took over” as the new head of the family. There was a difficult decision to be made just as I was leaving. The surgeon wanted to do a tracheotomy on Dad so that if he had trouble breathing again, they wouldn’t have to put him back on the ventilator. They convinced Joe that this would be the best thing. Joe convinced Mom even though she wavered back and forth for a couple days. She didn’t think it would be what Dad would want. She said more than once that he had told her he pretty much was through with living anyway. She was convinced he wouldn’t want to go through all that just to buy a few more years.

The time came quickly for me to go back home. It was difficult to say goodbye. Would I see Dad alive again? I went into his room by myself. I told him what a good Dad he had been—that I was thankful he had taught me the most important things in life. He and Mom lived a simple life—they didn’t need expensive things to be happy. They had each other; they had family; they had many good friends. I was grateful for his warmth and caring. Even though he had flaws like everyone, I always felt loved.

Back home I continued to call the hospital everyday. The tracheotomy went well. The surgeon convinced Mom that Dad wasn’t a dying man and that he deserved a chance to live. Dad had a few good days. There was talk of taking him outside. Joe went home. We realized it was a long road back but the choice had been made. And then the roller coaster dipped again. Ann called me at work and gave me the gut-wrenching news. Dad wasn’t going to make it! He had developed an infection. He couldn’t be fed. His body couldn’t take dialysis anymore. It was only a matter of days.

Waiting for your Dad to die—it is unreal. There I was miles away yet my heart was with him almost every moment. I couldn’t keep my mind on my work. I kept thinking things like, today my Dad is still alive but in a few days he will be dead. What will it feel like when my Dad is no longer in this world? I prayed constantly for God to be with him, to guide him to help him with the transition from this life to the next. Going through the motions of my life all the while being far away.

The call came. It was Saturday night after Ed and I had seen a movie. I had talked to Mom earlier and she seemed in good spirits. She said Dad was doing so well that everyone was surprised—still hoping for that miracle. Dad had died with everyone by his side. Carla said they were just about to leave to go to dinner when he opened his eyes briefly and then breathed his last breath. He knew all along that he wasn’t going to make it. We didn’t want to believe it. We kept hoping what we knew was happening wasn’t happening. I believe he left us slowly over that month to help us get prepared to live without him. By the time he died, we were all resigned to the fact that it was for the best. He wouldn’t have wanted to live in a nursing home, an invalid, on dialysis. He got his final wish.

My wonderful sister, Terry, paid for our flights. So glad the kids could go too as these kinds of experiences are so character building. They would be seeing family at its best. We had Sunday to pack, make the plane reservations and tie up loose ends. Monday was one of the most difficult days of my life, but thank God for email. I sent a company message about Dad saying that I would be out-of-the-office from Tuesday on. It saved me from having to tell everyone personally which would have been nearly impossible. I was pretty fine unless someone said something to me like, sorry about your Dad. Then instant tears! I called my best friend, Sue. She knew what I was going through as she had lost him Mom a few years back. The kids went to school so they could get their work for the week. I printed a copy of the obituary from the Toledo Blade and sent it to school with Alexandra. What an impressive list of accomplishments—Dad had lived some life.

The plane left very early—luckily no last minute disasters. Even though rainstorms were everywhere, our flights were on schedule. Andra’s husband, Charlie, picked us up at the airport and drove us to Mom’s. I would go with Mom and Carla to the funeral home and Ed and the kids would come along a little later.

It is strange yet familiar at the funeral home. My emotions are so real. You’ve seen the scene a hundred times, but this time it’s happening to you. Mom is so brave—she’s really an inspiration to all of us. And then there’s Dad lying so peacefully, looking so handsome. Really looking like he’s sleeping. I feel such tenderness for him. You cry. Your sisters cry. Luckily here you don’t have to try not to cry. Crying is OK. Pictures of Dad everywhere—they make you smile and laugh even. Ann has brought a video of Dad with her kids—crawling on the floor, dancing with Mom. It hasn’t really hit you yet. Not really. The flowers are lovely. Terry points out which one is from us, which one from Mom. The small one that says “Pa” from the grandkids—it’s right by Dad’s head, inside the casket. We read all the cards—there’s a beautiful wreath from my work.

So many friends, they come for hours--streams and streams of them. Even though the rain is coming in buckets, they still come to say goodbye to Dad. Everyone talks about his sense of humor, his sense of fairness. You can hear him laugh, see his expressions; it’s all so vivid. What a great guy. We see lots of neighbors we haven’t seen in years. What nice people. I worry that I’ll never have friends like these. Because Mom and Dad have stayed put, their friends haven’t changed. They were with them in grade school, high school, college. Everyone is so loving. It goes on for hours. My cousin, Ted comes early. We have a special relationship because we have “found” the same spiritual discipline—the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda. I know he knows how I feel, not just because he’s in tune with me, but also because he lost his own father many years earlier to cancer. My friend, Nancy, from high school comes. Drives an hour-and-a-half in the rain just to be there. It means a lot to me. I know I’ll act differently now when friends’ parents die. I know what it feels like now and I know what helps and what doesn’t. I’m in the club.

There’s lots of food downstairs for us—Subways, chips, soda. We go down every now and then to take a break from the intensity of it all. Carl is down there with a laptop working on some comments to give at the evening service. I’m grateful for the boys as none of the girls want to say anything—we know we couldn’t do it without breaking down. My phone rings and it’s my ex-husband, Mike, calling from Colorado to give his condolences. I sent him an email before I left town. He talks to Mom for a few minutes—how thoughtful.

Finally the time for the service arrives—it’s 7:00 and we have been greeting people nonstop since 2:00. We hear that Joe and his family are stuck in Cincinnati because of the rain—their flight has been cancelled. They’ll have to drive the four hours up to Toledo with their two little ones. What a nightmare! The Deacon from Mom and Dad’s parish is there to lead the service. We look for our kids and usher them into seats upfront. The service is nice, comforting. “May he rest in peace and let perpetual light shine upon him.” We celebrate Dad’s life—what a great guy. Ann’s daughter, Lindsay, reads a poem she wrote for Pa. So sweet. Carl, looking so much like Dad, reads from his paper—we’re all so proud of him. He has risen to the occasion. For so many years, Dad and Carl—your typical love/hate relationship. Dad so disciplined and strict—worked at the same job his whole life and never took a sick day. Carl, currently on unemployment. They come together now.

I think, how Dad would have loved all this. But as soon as I have the thought, I know that it is wrong. How he is loving all this. I know he is there in the room. Loving us and wanting us to know that he is happy, that he has made his choice. He has chosen a different life and wants us to accept him as he is now, not as he used to be. I believe as Einstein proved, matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Dad has merely changed like someone changes clothes. He has dropped his earthly body and taken on his Resurrection body. He is like the Risen Christ. We can pray to him and he can answer us. We can feel his presence. I am happy in that knowledge even as I miss him.

The morning is crisp and the sun is shinning—the promise of a bright new day. We all meet at the funeral home to accompany the casket to the church. The service is short, given by one of the funeral home employees. We all file by Dad to say goodbye. Lots of tears. Mom is last—so sad seeing her lying over Dad’s lifeless body to give him one last hug. We’re supposed to go but Joe still hasn’t arrived. Mom doesn’t want to leave until he does. He’s come all this way. Someone calls him on his cell—he’s gone to the church by mistake. He’ll be there in five minutes. We wait. Ann and her kids are back up by Dad, crying. Joe and Julie finally arrive, Joe carrying little Kevin who will be three in a few days and Julie holding Allison’s hand. Allison was six years old yesterday. They say goodbye to Pa. We all get in our cars and follow in procession to the church—Mom, Carla, Carl and me in the car right behind the hearse.

When we arrive at the church, the church where I married my first husband thirty years ago, the seven pallbearers carry the coffin into the narthex. My husband, Ed; my son, Andrew; my cousin, Ted; my brother-in-laws Charlie and Gerry; and my nephews, Barrett and Little Carl bear their burden gladly. We stop before entering the church for Mom to drape a cloth over the coffin. We all file up the aisle, some of us crying, holding hands, hugging our children. I feel the need to sit in the first pew with my Mom, brothers and sisters. My cousin, Mike, and his wife, Debbie, are playing guitar and singing. I never knew Debbie had such a beautiful voice. Ann’s twins, Haley and Lindsay, are the sorrowful altar servers, looking for all the world like they’d rather be anywhere else. Aunt Pat and Aunt Mary, Mom’s sisters, give out Communion. My children, Andrew and Katie, say the invocations. Ali is like me—too sad to say anything. The service goes quickly. I have trouble with the songs, as I can’t see the words for the tears. When the service is nearly over, Joe gets up to give the eulogy. I know Dad is loving it. Joe captures Dad—his love of golf, his love of Mom, his love of life and his love of a good joke. My favorite line, “He wasn’t a fast talker, but he was a fast walker”, brings memories of all of our little legs going as fast as they could go, trying to keep up with him. We sing Mom’s favorite—a song about the seashore. It reminds her of the many times she and Dad walked along the beach in Florida looking for shells. And then the service is over and we’re leaving the church to go to the gravesite.

We drive past many familiar landmarks to get to the Cemetery. I haven’t lived in Toledo for many years and don’t even remember this Cemetery. Dad is being buried next to his grandmother and grandfather in a grave purchased by his parents before they moved to California. Little baby Carla’s remains are also buried there and this seems to give Mom some comfort. I don’t remember much at the gravesite. I’m sure there was a short service. I remember looking at my kids and being grateful for my family. I remember leaving and touching the casket—a final farewell to Dad’s earthly remains.

We all drove back to the church for whatever it is you call a get together after a funeral. Mom seemed concerned that many people hadn’t known about it and so hadn’t gone to the gravesite. She hoped the number of cars in the funeral procession hadn’t disappointed Dad. It seemed to matter to him when he was alive as Mom told us he had commented on it whenever he had seen that line of flagged cars. It didn’t really reflect how he had been loved by so many. The food was good—I talked to Mom’s friend, Lily, and my godparents, Cathy and Jim. And then it’s over.

The memories of the rest of the week are precious to me. It is almost as if we were in a time warp. We played games, talked and ate mostly. Mom’s refrigerator was full when we arrived and almost empty when we left. I thought a lot about Dad, for he was all around me. He had lived with Mom in that house since I was in the fourth grade, almost 43 years. Everywhere I looked there was evidence of his life—and it was a good and successful life. I was proud of him. He hadn’t been perfect, but he had become a person each and every one of us loved dearly and will sorely miss.

Since our trip to Toledo, I have done a lot of soul searching. Dad is the lucky one. He has captured the brass ring; he has won the game. Our turn will come. He is the one gone before us, lighting our way. He will be there with us at the end of our lives. I have felt him near me many time since he has passed—when I’m running down the street, talking to my son, meditating. I feel so sorry for Mom, the one left behind. She misses him so much it hurts me to think about it. I only want for her to be happy. She is such a “good and faithful servant”. I wonder why God doesn’t give her more comfort. Maybe with time she’ll be able to want to live again. I hope that this is just one of the stages of grieving. When I talked to her the other day, she told me about a shell she found on the counter. No one had put it there. Maybe it was Dad trying to contact her. I know he would want her to be happy. He loved her so much for so long. I know he is still there by her side. I hope she’ll be able to feel his presence. Time will pass; she will be with him again. I want to tell her, “Enjoy each moment. Dad will wait for you.”