Saying Goodbye To Your Dad

My Dad died 10 years ago this year, in January 2002. I wrote some things about my Dad during that time, and haven’t really dug them out or read them since then.

January 2002

Written when my Dad was in the hospital following a heart attack in his sleep…

I will never forget the phone call. January 2, 2002. Your Mother calling at 3 AM is rarely a good thing, even when it’s my Mother calling. When I saw the clock, sleepily grabbed the phone and heard my Mom’s voice, I immediately thought that my Grandmother had died.  She was 88 at the time, and getting weaker and weaker each year. My Mom assured me every Christmas was Grandma’s last.

I didn’t expect the call to be about my Dad. I had just seen him two days before, visiting across the country for Christmas. I hadn’t spoken to him since I’d gotten back, but assumed everything was OK. It always had been. He’d had a heart attack in his sleep and had stopped breathing. He was in the hospital and my Mom said I needed to get back out there to say goodbye.

This was my Dad. I had just seen him alive. I had gotten home, and it was New Years. I would call him tomorrow, I was busy. After my Mom called and said he probably wasn’t going to make it, I hung up the phone and tried to cry.

Then I tried to get a plane ticket. The airlines were none too generous in their bereavement fares, or customer service. My credit card wouldn’t help with an emergency credit increase either. I told the representative my father was dying and I needed to get a plane ticket. She told me she couldn’t authorize a credit increase, but did tell me to “have a good day.”

Instantly I felt guilty. It’s how I was raised. I should have called one last time at least to say “happy new year” and tell him I loved him. But I didn’t, I was too busy. He had emailed me wishing me a happy new year, but I hadn’t answered that either.

I took the news like I take most bad news. I shut down and held my feelings in. I’d never dealt with the death of someone so close to me before so didn’t know what to do, or how to deal.

Mom had done an extraordinary job trying to save his life when she heard him stop breathing. Certainly better than I or most people could have done.  My Mom wonders whether or not she did the right thing.  Whether he is worse off now hooked up to machines that if he had just gone. She had to do something, and saved his life.

I cried that morning, alone in my room. Mostly numbness and silence since.  I think I write this as I don’t feel like talking or being with people too much.

I’ve had to let go of my Dad. That’s how I will deal. I’ve always prepped myself for the worst, and hoped that things work out better then the worst.

What lies in that bed is not my Dad. Though he might come back…whole we hope. I doubt it though. It hurts to feel this way, but you can’t lie to yourself or a cheap notebook you buy in the hospital gift shop.

Maureen wants to be the rock, but can’t be. She’s too young. It’s too tough for a young person to deal with, to lose their blood father. We all deal in different ways.  She has her faith.

It bothers me that when I start to question my lack of beliefs, this comes along. Am I Jobesque? Give me a chance. Let me do the homework before I get the test.

Mom has been more realistic, but has taken it hard. She grasps onto any small amount of hope. She tries to get Dad to move or open his eyes.  A blank stare provides some comfort. Maybe something is in there.

The most touching display I’ve seen is from their neighbor. He is a kind if not misled old codger. Dominated by his overpowering wife and ruled by his religious views. No liquor or lottery, but it’s OK to hate minorities and drown stray kittens. The neighbor tears up and shakes when he sees my Dad. He’s overwhelmed and helpless. He cries, shakes, and can’t speak. The devotion of an old man to his friend.

It’s unbelievable to see Dad hooked up to the machines. They keep him, or at least the shell alive to at least comfort the rest of us for a while. Hopefully his soul and consciousness are in a better place, or will be soon. 

He was a great, kind, gentle man.

Odd as it seems, I would like a sign from the beyond if or when he goes. I don’t know what, it’s the Houdini Syndrome. I don’t think my Mother will allow any late night séances.

I have memories. I hope I have some pictures. You don’ t think about it a lot, but pictures are memories, or at least help with memories.

I am very proud of him, and that he was my father. I would tell him…

Dad-

I am proud of you, that you were my father. You stepped up and helped me to be what I am.

I learned some things from you, and will honor your memory by honoring these things I’ve learned.

I think I learned independence from you. I will remain independent. I will remember to doubt, question, and be myself.

You tried to teach me self reliance. Something I have to work on. I will try though.

You taught me not to give up, though there have been times when I have given up.

You taught me about love, loyalty and friendship. You always had friends, made them, and stayed in touch with them. Later in life we became friends too, I think. I hope.

You tried to teach me responsibility. I try to be responsible, but I still need work.

You taught me about humor. Ham without eggs. Defense or attention mechanism, a lot of my humor comes from you.

I have learned this week I have to be an adult. Face up to responsibility. I can’t put things off. Why put off to tomorrow what you can do today?  I will try not to put things off as I have done so often in the past.

I want to get married and start a family as stable and strong as the one you led. I want to remember you through them, and I will.

I am sorry you will not get to know any of your grandchildren. Meredith, the love of my life, is beautiful and perfect, and your grandchildren will be too. They will learn from my memories of you.

You can never be replaced, and will never be. I am sorry for the times I let you down or disappointed you. I was sorry then and I am sorry now.

I hope that you can know that I will always love, remember and honor you as long as I live. I hope I can continue to make you proud.

I am proud of you and love you. You are my hero, the perfect example of husband, father and provider.

Thanks for everything, I hope you are OK and will be OK.

Doug

So this puts things in perspective for me. What I want to do, and what I need to do. I guess there is a time when you know you have to grow up. This is my time. I’m not exactly sure how I will change, but I have to.

I have to be there for my family. My mother and sister, and my girl Meredith.

I have to be responsible in life and at work.

I have to take care of debts.

I have to stay healthy.

I have to provide.

I have to stop avoiding responsibilities and commitments.

I have to keep in touch with friends. I would hate to lose them.

This has been the most trying, exhausting, surreal week of my life.

The morning of my Mom’s call, a strange thing happened. At 5:44 AM, a couple of hours after the call, I heard my name whispered in my room. I began to cry violently. The first time I cried. I don’t know what it was, but at the time, I thought it was my Dad reaching out, maybe saying goodbye. You can’t lie to yourself. Or a cheap notebook.

The day after I arrived, I spoke to Dad alone in the hospital. I touched his arm and leaned in close to his ear. I said “we are taking care of everything. I will take care of everything.” I didn’t believe it, but I said it to him.

He tensed up a few times, and an eye opened and seemed to look at me for a second.

If he can, I hope he has faith in me. I have tried to be strong, but perhaps haven’t been as strong as I could have or should have been.

I have tried to be here for my Mother and sister. To listen and give advice. I hope I have helped them.

I know I am dealing with this differently than they are. I want to be home with Mer, and have it all done, one way or the other as bad as that may seem. I also need to be alone. I also need to regroup and get a new start.

My last memory and the last time I spoke with him was right after Christmas when I was going home. He sat in the airport bar with me, and we had a couple of beers and talked. Sounds very clichéd, but the truth is stranger than fiction, folks.

Suddenly he stood up and said he had to go. There was plenty of time until my flight. He had actually gone to the gate and sat with me before.  I was disappointed. It struck me as odd at the time. I walked him out, and we hugged. I told him I loved him, and he said he loved me.  I kissed his cheek and thanked him and said goodbye. I remember being very sad as I watched him walk away and not look back.

It will be hard to say goodbye tomorrow when I have to leave. I will need to be alone and will cry. I may read this to him. I hope he will know and be OK.

Crying and sadness won’t help him, but it might help us. I hope he knows we love him and will remember him always.

I know it has been hard for him too, in some way. He led a good life. I hope he had as much happiness as possible, and not much hurt, sorrow and disappointment.

Sadly, my final memories of him will be of him in a bed, with tubes and machines keeping him alive. This week, the sorrow, the pain, and the difficulty of seeing him reduced to this. It should have to be like this for him, or for us.

I will try to always remember the last rushed goodbye in the airport, and how much I meant “thank you” and “I love you.” How sad I was to leave him, and to see him leave me. At least I got to watch him walk away.

We made the decision to unplug my Dad from the machines and let him go on January 12, 2002. He died early the next morning.

November 2002

Written several months after my Dad had passed…just a snippet...

I lost my father in January of 2002. Completely unexpected and out of the blue. I saw him one day, flew home, and then two days later he had a heart attack in his sleep.

Sleep apnea. That’s what killed him. He knew he had it too. Snored like a buzzsaw for years, and had put on some weight the last few years. He always avoided the subject of the doctor. He had a skin tab on his eye for months. You’d look at him and that thing would be dangling off of his eye while he talked, dangling in the wind. Never got it taken care of, If I remember right.

It gets better though, as it always does. Not only did he refuse to go to the doctor for any kind of medical service, but he drove the neighbor regularly to a sleep apnea specialist a couple of hours from where they lived. Didn’t have time to drive himself in though.

I was told I had it too, and that it “could be life threatening.” I ignored them too. They wanted to send guys out to my house to hook me up to equipment while I slept. At the time I weighed 255 LBS. The doctor finished the visit with “or you could lose 50-60 pounds.” We both laughed at that one.

My Dad is a classic example of ignoring your problems.

I ignore things too, always have and probably always will. I take the safe, easy way out. Avoid conflict, try to make everyone happy, often at my own expense.

Prior to losing my Dad, I’d never dealt with loss or death before. My Dad’s Mom died of cancer while living with us, but that was a long time ago. It was a long time coming, expected, and the end to her suffering was a relief. We weren’t very close. You don’t know about loss until you lose something you love. Up to then, my biggest loss was the loss if my childhood dog Sandy.

One one hand, I eventually lost 70 LBS, but had to sleep with a breathing machine for a while. Eventually I had jaw surgery that seemed to help my sleep apnea. 

My Dad's funerals were tough. We did one in the "town" where my parents lived for their friends. I read my letter there and broke down up on the podium. My sister Maureen came up and helped me out. She had an equally heartfelt letter, perhaps more so as they were blood, and he and I were...not. The night before there was an open casket viewing which was a terrible experience that my Mother insisted upon, so people could say goodbye. I'd already said goodbye. I will never torture my family and friends with an open casket. You can all rub my urn.

Then we had to travel to Arlington Cemetary where he was...laid to rest. So we had to go through another type of funeral, this one military, with the 21 gun salute and all. Difficult in a different way. This was a few months after 9/11 and we could actually still see the gaping hole in the Pentagon from my Dad's gravesite.

I don't think you ever get over losing a parent. Everyone deals with it differently, but it's something you never get past.

The next worst loss was of course the loss of my dear friend Brian on January 10, 2011. That was a shocker too, and showed me that I still really hadn't changed much. I still didn't make the effort to reach out to people that they deserve.