Happy Father's Day, Dad

I originally wrote this in 2005 for what would have been my dad's 75th birthday. This morning, in the shower, I was thinking about Father's Day, and this popped into my head. So, I'm posting it here. Miss you, Dad.

One hour. We missed him by a lousy hour.

If only the plane hadn’t been delayed out of Fresno. If only K. hadn’t had a meltdown in the middle of the Dallas/Fort Worth airport right after our arrival. If only the line at Budget Rent-A-Car wasn’t so long. If only. We might have made it.

But, when my cell phone rang as we were walking toward our rented rainy-gray Hyundai Santa Fe, I knew we’d missed it. My sister-in-law just asked where we were, she said nothing more. But I knew from the tone in her voice. I stopped rushing. We stopped at McDonald’s right off the freeway for a bite to eat because I knew we were no longer in a hurry. J. didn’t understand. She still thought time was of the essence, but I knew.

We pulled into the driveway at my parents’ house and piled out of the car. My brother D. met us at the car, and after a quick embrace, he broke the news. “Dad passed away about an hour ago,” he said. I hung my head low. J. had been holding it together pretty well all day, but she suddenly lost her composure. K. was bouncing around, excited to see all her aunts, uncles and cousins. She was oblivious; maybe that was a good thing.

How could this have happened? Today was Wednesday, December 1, and I was right back in Texas again. I’d just left on Saturday. I came down, by myself, on Thanksgiving day for what I’d thought would be my family-as-I-knew-it’s last attempt at a holiday together. Unfortunately, my dad was in an “assisted care” facility, recuperating from a bout of pneumonia, so he wouldn’t be attending our turkey feast. Four of us piled into my dad’s Cadillac and headed to the nursing home. The first thing I thought when I saw him lying there, gazing listlessly at the television while my mom held his hand, was “why the hell isn’t he in the hospital.” He was barely communicative. He hardly acknowledged my entrance into the room. He seemed to be struggling just to breathe.

But, he was not sick enough to be in the hospital, they deemed. And not well enough to go home, either. So he wound up in this godforsaken land of purgatory, college football games flickering on the Sony in the corner of the room. As his family gathered around him and regaled him with stories of their latest successes and challenges, hoping for a burst of clarity, a glimmer of recognition, I wondered if he’d make it through the night.

Thanksgiving was a pretty sedate affair. My brother G. offered a prayer that was the most heartfelt and genuine expression I’ve ever heard from his lips. “Dear Lord,” he began. “Please be a Father to my father,” he continued. Some of us furtively wiped tears from the corners of our eyes as he finished his blessing of the meal.

But the next day, he seemed better. And on Saturday, he seemed better still. He began telling stories of his halcyon days, back when he was a kid growing up dirt-poor and scratching out a living for himself. “My father needs a Father right now,” G. said in his prayer on Thanksgiving. Fitting, for my dad’s father died when he was two. Tuberculosis. He grew up without much of a father figure. A stepfather entered his life several years later, and to this day I know nothing about him. My dad never ever talked about him. I can only imagine the horrors that went on in that home. My grandmother divorced that man in the 1940’s when such things were absolutely unheard of.

After Dad had finished telling a story about how he worked in a grain mill and bagged animal feed in bags that were sewn together with equipment from the Fishbein Manufacturing Company in Michigan I felt better about his prospects for recovery. Dad was always a storyteller, and the fact that he felt well enough to retell that old chestnut was encouraging to me.

My flight back to Fresno was leaving soon, so I reluctantly took my leave. I gave Dad a hug and a small kiss on the cheek. It was the first time I recall ever kissing the man. I told him I loved him and that I’d see him soon.

“Wait,” he cried out. “Did you ever hire someone?” I had needed to hire a new person for an open position in my department, and Dad and I had talked at length about interviewing and looking for qualities in prospective employees.

“Yes,” I replied. “I hired one of the ladies I talked to  you about.”

“What’s her name?” he asked. You could tell he was getting weaker the more he talked.

“Lisa,” I replied.

“Lisa. That’s a nice name.”

I said goodbye again and walked out the door. Little did I know that those would be the last words that my Dad would ever say to me.

In my window seat in aisle 23 on the American Airlines MD-80 jet that flew me home, I dozed off listening to some exceptionally melancholy music on my portable CD player. My face was to the window, looking out at nothing but the blackness and emptiness of the night sky and the vastness of the unpopulated American West. As I dozed, my mind was blank, taking a vacation from the emotion of the previous two days. Suddenly, a bright flash awakened me. I whipped my head back quickly, unsure of what I had just witnessed. Was it an engine exploding?  A lightning strike? No, it was just the moonlight reflecting off the snow-covered Rocky Mountains. It bathed the airplane in a warm white light. The sight filled me with peace.

But four days later, I would be confronted with the sight of my Dad’s body lying lifeless in his bedroom at home, his mouth agape, whiskers sprouting from a chin that never went unshaven. How could this happen? Sure, he was sick. He had cancer, but, while it was painful, it didn’t seem that bad. They couldn’t even find the primary cancer in his body. He had a spot on his spine which caused him tremendous pain, but all the diagnostics in the world couldn’t pinpoint the primary cause. There was no cancer running rampant through his body that they could see. The cause of death on the death certificate read “Cancer: Unknown Primary.”

The Monday after Thanksgiving, the doctor began discussing physical therapy to help his mobility, and perhaps a transfer to the M.D. Anderson clinic in Houston, the Mayo Clinic of the southwest. By Tuesday, he was begging to go home. And late Tuesday night, he was under home hospice care. Wednesday morning, my sister-in-law D. called me and said that we’d better get out there as soon as possible. J., K. and I caught a plane that afternoon. Too late.

According to D., the last hour of my Dad’s life consisted of him going through a variety of gesticulations; his arms and legs moved randomly and crazily. He was no longer cognizant of his surroundings and no longer communicating to anyone. D. said that it was him “preparing his things to move into God’s house.”

The whole of my family who had managed to assemble on very short notice coaxed and urged my dad. “Hold on, Dad. A. and J. will be here soon.” But, he didn’t hang on, and died sometime while we were waiting in line at Budget Rent-A-Car.

“He didn’t want you to see him that way,” was my family’s attempt to smooth over our regrets for not making it there in time. I had at least been able to say “I love you,” and “goodbye,” when I saw him after Thanksgiving. But poor J., who just wanted to tell him that she loved him and appreciated his being more of a father to her than her own “father,” was deprived of that chance. So, we said our goodbyes over a lifeless corpse; a shell of what was once my father. That her goodbye went unsaid still haunts J. to this day.

After shedding some tears over the sight of my dad’s dead body, I managed to recover my emotional bearings and remain stalwart and unmoved. There were things to do, things to take care of. There was no time for tears. The funeral home people wheeled my dad’s body out the door. Three days later, that body that had done so much in 74 years of life would be reduced to a jar full of ashes.

I maintained my brave face until Saturday morning. The four of us brothers had decided that we would each give a eulogy at the memorial service Saturday afternoon. J. had already written his, but D., G. and I  procrastinated as usual, so we met at Starbucks at 7 AM and drank coffee and composed our epistles. Suddenly, the words that were so difficult to even think about began to flow effortlessly from my pen. The tears that I had repressed began to flow effortlessly, too. My own words, spilling onto the motel stationery in front of me were just too much for me to bear. My caramel macchiato grew cold in its paper cup as I furiously finished my composition.

As I expected, my eulogy went well. It was funny. People laughed. It was poignant. People cried. But, after it was done, I realized that I had written that eulogy for an audience, not for my father. My brothers had delivered much less polished, but much more genuine eulogies.

Since my dad wasn’t a part of my daily life, it’s been fairly easy to continue with my life without his presence. Sure, every now and then I’ll read an article in the New Yorker that I think would rankle his right-wing sensibilities. I encounter situations at work that I would love to be able to get his sage advice about, but mostly, I’m just me, carrying on my mundane existence, trying to get by.

Father’s Day sped by last week. It was the first Father’s Day that I had no one to call. I felt a bit empty, but I survived. My wife and daughter made sure that Father’s Day was special to me this year. But, Monday the 27th would be my Dad’s 75th birthday. That’s not a day I can disregard. So, Dad, in honor of your birthday, I will write a simple eulogy just for you:

Dad, I am so glad that I got to know you for 38 years. I only wish it could have been longer. My brothers all got to experience you in three different stages: The Father, The Mentor, and The Friend. I feel that we were just beginning that third stage, Dad, and I’m not going to lie, I’m sorry that I didn’t get to share that with you. But, you were an excellent father and mentor. You instilled in me a good moral backbone, a love of learning, and perspective on events in my life. You passed on to me a knack for remembering excruciating detail and a love of good popcorn. You were a terrific father-in-law to my wife and a fantastic grandpa to my daughter. Even though K. won’t remember you, your memory will be passed along to her. Thank you for all the sacrifices you made for me and for our family. You will never be forgotten. I love you, Dad. I know you’re having a great time playing bridge with the old pros up in heaven, but I want you to know that you’re still missed down here. Happy birthday, Dad.

--A.J.