Goodbye in Three Parts
Fragments of a few memories after my father's death in 2018.
II
Mom called. "It's your dad." She's crying. "When I woke up... He's not breathing. I called an ambulance." I said I'd be right there. I arrived just as the medics were coming downstairs. Sorry for your loss, they say. Mom is leaning on the stove. I head upstairs alone. I need to see it for myself. Dad is lying on the floor with a breathing tube sticking out. I hold his hand. It's still warm, but only a little. I hold it for a long time undisturbed before meeting mom in the kitchen.
Me: So, uh, what's next? Isn't there like, a bunch of things you have to do?
Mom: I don't know. Guess who always took care of stuff like that?
III
That was October 2018, shortly before the holidays.
When I was a kid, Christmas depended on how much joy my parents could provide. Things were different now. Everyone was running on empty. But I was doing ok. So I put on a Santa hat. I made Christmas dinner. I gave everyone a variety of framed photos I had taken of my dad during his last couple years, and wrapped them perfectly in a fancy box. I tried to look after everyone and make sure they didn't push themselves too hard. And honestly it went pretty well. Some time later, we buried his ashes, and I led the service.
At the end of the year, I came home and saw my roommate for the first time in a little while. "How was your Christmas?" he said.
I thought about it for a moment. "I nailed it," I said.
I
It's father's day. I'd spent the day at my parents' house, grilling and hanging out. It's evening now, time for me to go home. I step outside to wait for my Uber. Dad comes out and stands next to me without much comment. He looked tired, but still I could tell he was sorry to see me go.
Me: Hey, dad. Thanks for raising me.
Dad: It was fun.
This a typical heartfelt conversation between stoic males so let me translate.
Me: We both know you're dying. But it's ok. Just want you to know the time you spent with me wasn't wasted. You taught me how to be a man with integrity and purpose. I wish you could stay longer to teach me more. But then again, you've taught me enough, so I think I can manage it from here somehow. I hope you're right about heaven being a tangible place. If so, I'll see you there. Either way, thanks for everything.
Dad: I enjoyed my life. Raising my kids was the best part. I have no regrets.