My Dad, a force in my life and a week short of 94 years old, passed on a few days ago. Yesterday, the funeral and saying-goodbye process with family and friends came to a close. He is gone, but will always be with those of us who loved him.
He was strong, fiercely self-reliant, willing himself and others on. He was proud of his service as a paratrooper in WWII and his 50 years a Mason. He built and prospered his Hudson's Dry Cleaning business with the help of his devoted wife and partner of 68 years, my mother Polly. He was a sportsman: a wing shooter, a fisherman, and he continued to play competitive golf until he was 91. But if he was a force in my life, I never fully acknowledged or even understood how much until it was finally clear to me that he was not really immortal: on the day that he died.
He faded notably in the past year, and quickly the last month. He had become so frail and weak that he could not quite speak a word, but just utter sounds approximating one. We brought in the Hospice folks a week and a half before his passing. They were wonderful. Over the last three days, I sat with him during the day, and my brother, Gary, during the night, 12 on, 12 off. My sister, Loretta, also spent hours with him, too. We brought my mother to be with him whenever her dementia-Alzheimer's and his deteriorating condition offered an opportunity. They nonetheless shared some sweet and touching time holding each other's hand, kissing and expressing their lifelong love.
As it became too clear he would not be living forever, or even another day, as I began to realize what a force in my life he had always been, his fragile, life-exhausted body finally gave in, and he passed on. It happened as a gentle, caring Hospice Chaplain and I were holding his hands and praying for him and for we who must carry on without him. He took his last breath as we finished praying. There was one more half-gasp, then nothing. He was no longer there. The sense of loss and unexpected flood of emotions were overpowering. It affected all who loved and respected him in the same way. But he died leaving a full, rich life and no complaints or regrets behind, and with the assurances of his faith held close. He left it all on the field of life.
The next day, he felt present to me again; and I expect he will for the rest of my life. He was present in all my hurried steps preparing for visiting hours, family sharing time with clergy, a graveside service with military honor guard, and the interment of his ashes. After committing his ashes to the earth, we gave thanks for him, reached down and pulled up as much joy and thanksgiving as we could muster for a family-and-friends celebration of his life. Only good wines, and the most joyful, edifying stories and remembrances would do. Dad would have enjoyed that; I know we all did.
Thanks for listening. I needed to share it, and I felt you'd likely be okay with that. In the midst of it all, I've taken refuge from my emotions in busywork, attending to his needs, administering the preparations for the necessary next steps in the funeral and saying-goodbye process. But at the end of that prayer, at the time of his passing, the emotions and tears flowed. I'd unconsciously been shaped by him to be something of a next-generation, stoic swamp Yankee. And often, that served me well. But I'd also been graced by the influence of a Southern Baptist, sweet-hearted and kindly mother from North Carolina who used to send me to elementary school with bags of clothing for the poorest members of my class. I am both people. But at that moment, it was my mother's honest, earnest and compassionate heart that held sway over my emotions, my respect and, yes, my expression of love and loss. There has been richness and life affirmation in this process of his passing, as well. I'm sure I'll be unpacking and processing the experience for some time to come.
Greg
He was strong, fiercely self-reliant, willing himself and others on. He was proud of his service as a paratrooper in WWII and his 50 years a Mason. He built and prospered his Hudson's Dry Cleaning business with the help of his devoted wife and partner of 68 years, my mother Polly. He was a sportsman: a wing shooter, a fisherman, and he continued to play competitive golf until he was 91. But if he was a force in my life, I never fully acknowledged or even understood how much until it was finally clear to me that he was not really immortal: on the day that he died.
He faded notably in the past year, and quickly the last month. He had become so frail and weak that he could not quite speak a word, but just utter sounds approximating one. We brought in the Hospice folks a week and a half before his passing. They were wonderful. Over the last three days, I sat with him during the day, and my brother, Gary, during the night, 12 on, 12 off. My sister, Loretta, also spent hours with him, too. We brought my mother to be with him whenever her dementia-Alzheimer's and his deteriorating condition offered an opportunity. They nonetheless shared some sweet and touching time holding each other's hand, kissing and expressing their lifelong love.
As it became too clear he would not be living forever, or even another day, as I began to realize what a force in my life he had always been, his fragile, life-exhausted body finally gave in, and he passed on. It happened as a gentle, caring Hospice Chaplain and I were holding his hands and praying for him and for we who must carry on without him. He took his last breath as we finished praying. There was one more half-gasp, then nothing. He was no longer there. The sense of loss and unexpected flood of emotions were overpowering. It affected all who loved and respected him in the same way. But he died leaving a full, rich life and no complaints or regrets behind, and with the assurances of his faith held close. He left it all on the field of life.
The next day, he felt present to me again; and I expect he will for the rest of my life. He was present in all my hurried steps preparing for visiting hours, family sharing time with clergy, a graveside service with military honor guard, and the interment of his ashes. After committing his ashes to the earth, we gave thanks for him, reached down and pulled up as much joy and thanksgiving as we could muster for a family-and-friends celebration of his life. Only good wines, and the most joyful, edifying stories and remembrances would do. Dad would have enjoyed that; I know we all did.
Thanks for listening. I needed to share it, and I felt you'd likely be okay with that. In the midst of it all, I've taken refuge from my emotions in busywork, attending to his needs, administering the preparations for the necessary next steps in the funeral and saying-goodbye process. But at the end of that prayer, at the time of his passing, the emotions and tears flowed. I'd unconsciously been shaped by him to be something of a next-generation, stoic swamp Yankee. And often, that served me well. But I'd also been graced by the influence of a Southern Baptist, sweet-hearted and kindly mother from North Carolina who used to send me to elementary school with bags of clothing for the poorest members of my class. I am both people. But at that moment, it was my mother's honest, earnest and compassionate heart that held sway over my emotions, my respect and, yes, my expression of love and loss. There has been richness and life affirmation in this process of his passing, as well. I'm sure I'll be unpacking and processing the experience for some time to come.
Greg
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