My siblings may think differently, but I don’t have many poignant memories of my father (Channelling Pop). He was an understated guy. Quiet and often withdrawn, his personality took a backseat to my mother’s more direct and outspoken demeanor. I would bet all of us could look back and feel nostalgic about him, but I’m not sure any of us would say that the moment we were recalling was one of high emotion—neither heartening nor disheartening. He was shy. He put his foot down when he felt he must. He had an opinion behind closed doors, but you’d be hard-pressed to find it displayed in public.
“Hey Dad, y’know how you’re whatever age you are for real, but a different age in your head?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well, how old are you in your head?”
“Y’know, I think I’m 46.”
“Really!?” I must have looked pretty dumbfounded, and he was looking a little surprised himself. We both knew he would most likely die that day. We had that conversation at about 10:00 am, he died that afternoon. Having battled cancer that had invaded his bones and other organs, he was exhausted. We spoke in his room at the nursing home. He hated not being home for his last few weeks, but it was impossible. Weakness and bone fractures had made him immobile, and neither he nor my mother were in their forties any longer. He didn’t die of old age, but he wasn’t a young man.
Because of geography, I was more fortunate than my siblings to be able to know my father better during those final months. He was more forthcoming and especially funny during those days. Coincidentally at that time, my aunt who had Alzheimer’s disease was on a different floor in the same facility. My cousins would bring their father who also had Alzheimer’s to visit her every day. In his agitation he would walk the floors pushing her wheelchair up and down the hallways being guided by his daughters from a distance. This day was like the others, but my cousins stopped in to see my father while allowing their parents to pace the floor. Uncle Whitey would see his daughter guiding him toward my father’s bedroom and enter after each successive lap of the nursing unit. Unable to retain the memory of seeing my father laying in bed, my uncle would ask the same two questions over and over.
“Gee Al, what are you doing in the hospital? Are you sick?”
Patiently, time after time my father replied, “I just haven’t been feeling good Whitey. I’ll be okay.” Until finally after at least six repetitions of the same response he unexpectedly said, “Jesus Christ Whitey, why don’t you crawl into this bed and I’ll push Anita around?”
Maybe he was frightened, but he hid it with humor and allowed some rare moments of emotional exposure. He may not have felt ready to die, but he still did it right. I knew then that he was aware of his own sadness, but I now realize he was also aware of ours. Living through the death of a loved one you hope for signs that it wasn’t overly difficult for them—that they didn’t suffer. You look for reassurance that your eyes are feeding you misinformation. If you’re lucky, you can convince yourself long enough to get through an awful time. If you’re really lucky, you can find a collaborator. Maybe that day on his death bed my dad really did feel more than thirty years younger, but (now) I have a hard time believing it.
Today’s cue is cover.