Two years ago tomorrow, at around 1pm, my father died. It was not unexpected — he had been ill for quite some time, though the final stage of his life went quickly. My family, and my father, were incredibly fortunate to have the remarkable support from hospice and dad was able to die at home. We were able to give him the death that he wanted.
My daughter, who was two at the time, my mom and I were in the room when he died. We knew this moment was upon us because the room suddenly was quiet — his labored breathing had stopped. Holding his hand, and checking for his pulse, I felt those last seconds. Then there was stillness, and for the first time in perhaps years, dad relaxed.
Dad wanted to be cremated and had no desire for big funeral. So we gave him that as well, and in the spring when the New Hampshire weather was more cooperative, we held a simple graveside ceremony. Later that summer, my brother and I trekked to a favorite fishing hole of dad’s and scattered some of his ashes. Mom and my sister mixed some of the ashes into the tennis court where dad spent so much of his time. Another little bit was deposited at his parents’ grave and the rest buried at another family plot.
I don’t know what happens to a person after death. My mom gains much comfort from her belief that they will be reunited. I assume she’s aiming for heaven. My daughter has a more immediate connection to dad. She believes that “we hold papa in our hearts.” I like that, though it doesn’t quite capture my continued relationship with dad. For me, dad is sitting on my shoulder — coaching, guiding, admonishing, questioning. He is doing what he always did, trying to get me to get on and then stay on a path through which I can reach my full potential.
Upon learning that he had died, a long time friend wrote this observation — “he was a formidable presence in your life.” She was right. There was probably no other single person who had such an impact. This is not to say we had an easy relationship. We both were stubborn, had tempers and did not suffer fools gladly. He demanded a lot and expected that whatever you did, you would do it well. I know he was perplexed with some choices I made – most noticeably in the partner category (frankly, and in hindsight, so am I).
Yet through it all, I never doubted that he was “in my corner.” Dad was not given to displays of emotion or heaps of praise, yet I nonetheless understood that he was proud of my accomplishments. And when he did signal that you’d done a good job, it was pure gold. Perhaps most significant – dad never said that I couldn’t do something or accomplish something because I am female. To have a constant grounding message that I could aspire to anything, accomplish anything (as long as I worked for it) was an amazing gift.
There may come a time when I don’t think about him, or have conversations with him, but I can’t imagine when. I miss him intensely, especially now that I am parenting. He did get to spend some time with my daughter, but had he lived longer, she would have gained so much from him. Instead, I try to conjure up his insights and words of wisdom, try to channel some of his energy and focus, and wish that I could get a kid to behave with just a glare (a special talent of his). In the darkness of night, I ask him for ideas or solutions. Sometimes I vent my frustrations. I share my desire that he be with me to help me guide this remarkable daughter of mine. And then I listen.
And so, dad has been gone for two years. But not entirely. He still is a powerful influence on me. He remains a strong presence. He’ll always be “dad.” My goodbye to him will never be final.
