Monday, October 20, begins another work week for millions of people after a weekend of football games and preparation for a Halloween that falls on a Friday this year. Monday is also my father’s birthday and Wednesday marks two years since he left this world.
Life truly is both bitter and sweet. Tears and laughter; heartache and joy. Especially as I remember my father who I deeply miss.
I will always remember the last conversation I had with my father before his awful medical event. Even though dementia was causing his health to continue its slow decline with each passing day, he was still cognizant at times. A chat that never would have happened before I opened up my heart to God. Instead of a lifelong regret of sorrow, I will always carry with me a lifelong recollection of joy.
It was a late Thursday afternoon, summer firmly in control of the meteorological calendar. I was on the phone with my parents, each of us sharing the events in our life since we last spoke. I shared with them my conversation with our neighbor, a younger middle-aged man with two young children. Everyone seeming younger to me as I clock more mileage in my fifties.
We talked about his new RV and if he had the opportunity to enjoy it. He told me that they were planning a trip, and his young boys were looking forward to the adventure. We chatted a little longer and then went our respective ways.
I shared with my parents my neighborly conversation, and how it reminded me of when they took us on vacation to the west coast. Grade schoolers visiting their maternal grandparents and my mom’s side of the family who lived in Washington state. RV in tow hitched to our Plymouth Volare station wagon westward bound.
A vehicle summoning memories of the only real suffering I experienced as a child. Vinyl seats that were frigid blocks of ice in the winter and a scorching fry pan in the summer. I’m still traumatized by the sight of green vinyl (as every human should be).
This annual summer trip would use all my father’s earned vacation time. Now, as an adult, understanding how precious that time was for him. I told my father how much I admired him and what a great role model he has been.
We chuckled and laughed, reminiscing about a past that made me smile. A tangible testament that honors both my mother and father. A sign of parental priorities well lived. It was nice.
I also told my father how much I loved him and telling my mother how much I loved her. My father responding, “I love you very much son,” my mother responding, “I love you very much son.” It was a love fest, a conversation unlike any other I had with them, and it would be our last conversation together.
A little over twenty-four hours later, my father had a violent seizure which caused him to break both arms. In speaking with my mother, sister and brother early Saturday morning, the devastation of this event become evident. My mother believing during my father’s seizure that she was going to lose her lifelong partner of sixty-one years. Yes, sixty-one years.
My father would survive this trauma, but in reality, he didn’t survive. His dementia became far worse and the man I knew as my father really doesn’t exist anymore. The husband, the parent, the friend we all knew had passed.
I miss no longer talking with my Dad about our past shared experiences, the things in this life that united us and the memories we created together. Our pinewood derby cars from Cub Scouts. Teaching me how to ride a bike or use a lawn mower and his love of Big Band music. Always “in the mood” to listen to Glenn Miller.
Our father and son camping trips. How he always cries whenever he talked about my first night with him and my Mom as their newly adopted son. Their first child finally falling asleep while being held in his father’s arms.
My father having taught me to keep my feet on the ground and to face whatever is in front of me. He also taught me to look up and around at the wonderous world that surrounds me. Wonders not always in front of me, but also above and around me.
My eyes tearful, my heart swelling with gratitude as I write this story. I miss him very, very much. Knowing that we will meet again on that beautiful shore in the sweet by and by. That I am certain of now. God is love.
Happy birthday Dad, you are loved and missed.
Peace. God loves you.