My father passed away on January 13th of this year. It feels strange not to pick up the phone and hear his voice, send him the latest updates on his grandchildren, get his solicited and sometimes unsolicited yet loving financial advice, hear about the weather, etc. It still doesn’t feel 100% real but there is a closure of sorts having just returned from his memorial service.
The last 6+ months felt unsteady, my grief hard to identify. Busy in my mind and in my heart. There were the logistics of settling his estate and coming together to make the arrangements for headstone, flowers, reception as well as to secure the venue, book the minister and confirm the plot location. I was so grateful that my siblings did the heavy lifting for that coordination. Going east for me—revisiting my hometown area—would bring up so many memories and lots of confusing emotion for me. Arranging for five busy and separate schedules and being financially mindful would prove to take up a lot of time under stressful circumstances. We would end up being in 4 states and five different homes in 8 days. I would reconnect with extended family, my parents’ long time friends, and our college friends—all in a whirlwind trip.
As a child, I adored my Dad. I was the oldest of four, and I felt safe, protected, and cared for with a nice house and yard, private schooling, good food, country club and travel vacations.
I remember being in the hospital at six years old and he came in to my room and gave me a yellow dump truck. I loved that truck so much because it came from him. I used to get in the car with him on Saturday mornings and the two of us would head to the beach for a long hot day out in the sun. I would take the trash to the dump site with him—his big helper.
As a young adult, I remember the day he showed up for me when I was scared about an upcoming doctor appointment. He left his office and met me on a busy NYC street corner to comfort me. I remember the check that arrived on my birthday with the card acknowledging how much I love painting, and that he hopes that I will go to the painting retreat again this year. I remember his love for the stories I would tell about the people I would meet on Amtrak. My Dad might have been Amtrak’s biggest fan.
As an adult, he gave me space to make my life—always worried and concerned for my wellbeing but confident in my abilities to stay strong. He watched me mother and complemented me constantly on how the boys were raised and how proud he was of everyone.
He felt I understood him —without so many words and without fanfare. I could spend time with him and we wouldn’t have to speak if we didn’t want to on our beach walks or as a visitor in his home. It was easy to sit and be with him. He loved when we came to visit him but he also knew that my life was full and 2,000 miles away.
He was an ear whenever I needed one. He had a serenity about him. He loved his daily space to spend with the New York Times, a cup of boiling hot coffee in front of the TV or fireplace. He had a need for quiet and nature. Time at the beach was critical to his wellbeing—the sun on his face, the smell of salt water and the ocean breeze tingling his skin, the treasures he would find, the solitude. He loved it all as I do.
He rests in the most beautiful and peaceful cemetery—birds chirping, lush green grass away from street noise and tucked deep into the heart of the land next to his sister and a short distance from his wife, my mother, Anne and her parents.
His mantra at the end was one he carried close to him for the past 25 years of being in AA. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” As we spoke those words together in the weeks just before he died, it reminded me of the struggles he met with such grace and presence as best he could in every moment; not dwelling on the mistakes he made or how he could have done differently, but making me feel important and special—what a real gift!
Impressions: the peaceful putting his ashes into the earth with ceremony. The community gathering, with both serious and humorous eulogies of his earthly life. A rainbow appearing during the singing of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Stories touching on his passion for train travel, his story telling, his love for his dachshund, his love of meeting people and interest in philanthropy and supporting local operations. He made people feel welcome and comfortable. So many people sharing how he touched them. His stories were heartwarming and funny, drawing people in closer. He was big hearted and compassionate. He was giving. Slipping in some bill to make sure gas, a drink were covered. He was human and had his moments.
Sure he had his addictions and he was stubborn at times…but he was my Dad and he feels super humanly big right now in my memory. So, here I am in this moment feeling lighter and feeling that I may not be able to wrap my arms around him or take that chair to the beach for one last view but I know that he is happy and he was so beautifully honored by his most beloved minister in his hometown church. What could be more special than that?
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My brother, Wally, recently delivered a beautiful eulogy at our Dad’s memorial service. Part of me was sad that I didn’t take the opportunity say goodbye in front of a church full of friends and family. So here is what I want to say to him, knowing that he is listening intently: Dad I love you and I am thankful for your loving presence throughout my life. I was one lucky girl to have you love me and celebrate my life choices freely and proudly. You modeled staying true to your heart knowing that you weren’t going to please everyone. Your courage and strength were admirable. Your life wasn’t easy at times and yet you modeled perseverance and hope for better ways. Your gentle way of being made others feel at ease. Your pace reminded me to slow down and smell the flowers. You sought out beauty, kindness, and truth. You were generous. You were thoughtful and supportive of your grandkids. You loved what you loved and I loved that about you. You were a great bullshit detector and called people out. You stood up for yourself. You stood up for me. As I think about the things that most remind me of you—it is train travel, the love of the sun, sea glass, the poem Ithica, the AA verse, sunflowers, the NY Times, Meister, your expensive clothes, jewelry, cameras, stamps, flashlights, letter openers, fleece jackets, navy blue cars, crisp blue and white stripes in your clothing. I miss you a lot and I carry all those wonderful feelings and memories of you in my heart. I am happy you are at peace. Love you Dad.