Father's death elicits memories of a good man / LJWorld.com

Archive for Sunday, March 16, 2008

March 16, 2008

I was one of the lucky ones. Among my peers, I was one of the few whose parents were both healthy, happy and still madly in love after 53 years.

"How are your folks?" my friends would ask.

"They're doing great," I'd reply.

"You're lucky," they'd say, wistfully, perhaps thinking of a mom who had passed or an ailing dad.

Two Mondays ago, my luck ran out when my father returned home after lunching with friends and, without warning, suffered a massive stroke.

The next day at noon, I was admitted into a club I never wanted to join: the survivors club.

What happened next remains a surreal, nightmarish blur. Preparations were made. Services held. Food consumed. Friends received and condolences offered. Tears were shed. Thousands and thousands of tears.

Wounds this deep don't heal in days, even weeks or months, and today I still grieve. I grieve for my dad and even more for my mom. I mourn for my siblings and their children, my kids and husband - all adored the man we called Grandpa Tom. My heart breaks for Dad's many friends.

I feel sorry for myself, too. There's an aching in my chest that won't go away. I sit up in bed every morning and literally shake my head until reality sinks in again: He's really gone. How can this be?

Then - miraculously, mercifully - a wave of gratitude washes over me and I'm given a momentary reprieve. I think of all the people who have had to grow up without a father and remind myself that I had a dad - a wonderful dad - for 52 years.

I had a dad who wept with joy the first time I laughed out loud as a baby.

I had a dad who would wake at 2 am to the sounds of me gasping and barking with a case of croup, a frequent childhood occurrence. He'd carry me into the bathroom, turn on a piping hot shower, and hold me in his lap on the toilet seat. Eventually, the steam would envelop us, my cough would subside, and I'd fall asleep on his strong, sweaty chest.

Dad was my first dance partner. As a girl, I'd place my tiny feet on his, and we'd totter across the floor. He taught me the basics of the foxtrot and never lost his temper when I'd insist on leading or step on his toes. At father-daughter banquets in high school, he'd impress my friends with his groovy signature moves - something akin to The Frug (no one was ever quite sure) - and suffer gladly the silly, exhausting "Bunny Hop."

In my dating years, he was a vigilant protector - TOO vigilant, at times, to my teenage mind. To my utter dismay, he'd wait for me to come home from a Saturday night date and make sure I didn't linger too long at the door saying goodnight.

"Time to come in, Cath," he'd call from inside, in a nonthreatening yet no-nonsense way.

"OK, OK," I'd sigh, rolling my eyes dramatically. (I never told him, but there were some "goodnights" I was all-too-relieved to have him cut short. Thanks, Dad.)

My father taught me to shake a person's hand with a firm grip and look them straight in the eye, to always speak up and make a strong first impression. His confidence - in himself and in me - was an invaluable gift.

We didn't agree on many of the hot-button issues of the day, but after fiery debates, he'd give me a hug, kiss me on top of the head and tell me he loved me. And while I knew he was secretly thinking, "How in the hell could a child of mine cross over to the other side?" the message was clear: Don't let a little thing like politics come between you and the people you love.

Most importantly, my dad showed me what a devoted husband and father should be. He was always available - not just physically present, but really there for his family - whenever we needed him.

I miss my dad more than words can express. But when a wave of self-pity comes on, I think about the millions of children being raised, for whatever reasons, without father figures.

Pity them, not me. Because I had a dad - a wonderful dad - for 52 years.

I was one of the lucky ones. I still am.

Cathy Hamilton is editor of BoomerGirl.com and a 52-year-old empty-nester.

Discussion

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16 March 2008
at 7:47 a.m.

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dragonwagon2 (Anonymous) says…

Thanks, Cathy.
My Dad just passed away in February and all of the things you mention in your column touched me because they were true for me too. My Mom and Dad were married 58 years and I'm 57. You are so right - gratitude helps ease the pain a little. We'll miss him greatly, but he lived a really good life and all of us that knew him are very lucky.
Renee'
16 March 2008
at 8:25 a.m.

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justbegintowrite (Ronda Miller) says…

dragonwagon2 and Cathy, you two are truly lucky women to have had your fathers in your lives for such a long time - and in such a healthy manner. Don't cut yourselves short though, you certainly have a lot to grieve about. The nice thing is that you know what and whom you are greiving - as mentioned something a lot of men and women of all ages will never know. They will never have a clue the impact of a strong, supportive father, or father figure, could have done for their lives, their personalities, their abilities to love and cherish people around them in all relationships. We are ever ready to lose any loved one, certainly never ready to lose a mother or a father. I commend both of you for sharing your heartfelt love! My heart goes out to you both.
16 March 2008
at 9:40 a.m.

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George_Braziller (Anonymous) says…

My father died last July on his 75th birthday, two days after my mom had put him in a nursing home because of his Alzheimer's. They had been married for 47 years and I'm 46. In some ways for me he died two or three years before his body realized it. You are lucky that your father was active and “your father” up until the very end. Mine just sort of faded away.
16 March 2008
at 10:48 a.m.

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mom_of_three (Anonymous) says…

I am in my early 40's, and both my parents are alive and kicking, and happily married to other people. I recently lost my grandmother, who I was named after, and I miss her so much. I can't imagine what it is like for my mother, who cared for her every day during the last 7 months, and watched over her during every hospital visit in the last 10 years. I don't know what I will do when I have to go through it. Thank you for writing such a great article.
16 March 2008
at 12:44 p.m.

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ok (Anonymous) says…

That was such a nice tribute. Thank you for sharing, and expressing what so many of us feel when our loved ones pass on.
16 March 2008
at 1:17 p.m.

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Finnbar1 (Anonymous) says…

Wow what a great story—thanks for sharing.
16 March 2008
at 1:23 p.m.

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notajayhawk (Anonymous) says…

I was thinking about the cycles that are near universal in people's attitudes regarding their parents.

When you're a small child, your parents are larger than life, they are infallible, they know and can do anything. (Small children have to believe this because their lives can literally depend on it.)

When you're a teenager, you wonder how your parents survived to be that old. They don't know anything, and are completely incapable of recognizing that *you* know it *all*.

As you get older, if you're lucky enough for your parents to still be around (my parents are also still here and still married after 60 years), and you've experienced some of what they've lived through (like trying to deal with kids of your own!), you realize they're people, like you, and they just did, and continue to do, the best they can. Sometimes that won't be enough and sometimes they'll be wrong, but all they can do is their best, and your own ability to do likewise came from what they taught you.

And in time after their passing, as you settle into the fond and happy memories, they're restored to their rightful position of being those perfect beings that you knew when you were too young and innocent to know any better.

16 March 2008
at 2:19 p.m.

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amyklamet (Anonymous) says…

Cathy - I look forward to your column every Sunday. I missed it last week - and thought to myself - oh, she's on vacation. Today I learned why.

So often I find myself agreeing with you, understanding you, even laughing out loud. I don't know you, but feel as if I do. Even today on a serious subject - the death of your father - caused me to smile to myself - remembering my own father who died in 1984.

I'm sorry for your loss. What a wonderful father you had - thanks for sharing your story.
17 March 2008
at 8:24 a.m.

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lawrencejna (Anonymous) says…

What a beautifully touching article, this is. I applaud your ability to be so honest to your readers, and to really find a healthy way for coping with such a great loss. Thank you.