MY FRIEND IS GONE

Dad had his first stroke just before his 80^th birthday. It was serious, but within a year he was about 90% back to normal. His driving scared the hell out of me. He was so overly cautious; I was sure he’d have an accident or cause one.

He never really recovered from his second stroke. He was 83. He was bedridden for a year or so. Mom took care of him. We had a hospital bed set up in their former bedroom downstairs. He required a lot of attention and care. I would go back to Marion periodically for a week or two to give her a break. Even though he was bedridden, he retained his sense of humor, always with a ready quip or pun. Most of the time. I was talking with him one time and he told me, “This just isn’t living.”  He’d always been such an active man, always on the go.

I was there on 9/11, the day the planes crashed into the Twin Towers. In shock and horror, I relayed to him what was happening. Mom was in the kitchen, as she often was.  I called her in. She was sitting on the sofa beside me, just as stunned as I was.

I was at home in Seattle, March 23, 2006 when I got the call that dad was in hospice care. David and I immediately agreed I needed to get there as soon as I could. He was in Marion, so I was staying with mom. Dad was in hospice for a few days after I arrived. Like his time at home, he was in good humor and had a ready joke or silly pun at hand. The siblings all gathered. Over the next few days, we each had our time to be alone with him. I don’t really remember what he and I talked about. I know he was concerned about my soul. I know that he loved me, regardless.

Sidebar…

Everyone in the family was concerned about my soul. One afternoon, Floyd, Dwayne, and I went out to lunch to take a break from Hospice. The topic of salvation and me came up. I told them I don’t believe in God or Jesus. They asked about going to heaven. Told them I don’t believe in that either. “What about after you die, eternal life?” I don’t really care about eternal life after I’m dead. I’ve never felt the need. Or even the need to find my purpose in life. “So, you’ve rejected everything mom and dad taught us?” “No, not everything,” I replied. I believe in many of the values they taught us: honesty, love, doing what’s right, etc. I don’t need the religious trappings to lead a good life and be a good person.

Dad knew he was dying. He told mom he wanted her to come with him. With brothers who died in their 90s and a sister who lived to 104, she smiled, patted his hand and told him she wasn’t quite ready to go yet, and she’d consider it when she was as old as Aunt Geneva.

The staff at the care facility he was in gave us some pamphlets on end-of-life care and what to expect as hospice progressed. Eight of us were there with him: Mom, Floyd & Arlene, Dwayne & Diane, Dwyte & Janet, and me. Brother-in-law Tom was at home, Twyla was headed home. We were scattered around the room, when one of us noticed dad was breathing like a fish, mouth opening and closing like they do. This is a common sign the end is near. We all gathered around his bed. Mom was holding his hand, the rest of us had our arms around each other. I was in tears, watching him slip away, softly, tenderly.

At the moment of his death, Dwayne stopped the clock on the wall and removed dad’s watch and stopped it as well. He asked if anyone would like to have the watch. I immediately said I would like it. The others agreed.

There were tears, few words. Floyd, moved by the spirit, began rejoicing with shouts of praise God that dad was finally at peace, out of pain, and in Heaven. I’m sure the staff were wondering what the hell was going on in the room. I had to laugh.

The five siblings met with the funeral director at Boyd’s to arrange everything. We provided several photos and a list of dad’s favorite songs for them to create a video for the service. Someone came up with the idea of having nametags at the wake the night before the funeral. And not just nametags, but with instructions for people to include a word or two on how they knew dad. Twyla and Floyd agreed to speak during the service.

David flew in a couple of days before the funeral. We weren’t allowed to sleep in the same room, so I was in my old room and David was in the blue room. Mom’s house was full of grandkids and great-grandkids even though most of them were staying at nearby hotels. Family friends brought over food and meals and offered their condolences.

Some of us arrived at Marion First for the viewing early to set up. We had created poster boards with dozens and dozens of photos from dad’s life; his time in the navy, their wedding day, family vacations, him with us as kids, him in his American flag shirt that mom made for him and his red Converse Allstars with white stars on them, which mom later sent to me—I wear them every 4^th of July. The funeral home staff did a lot of the setup. The video was playing. Dad, in his coffin, was down at the front of the church. We went down to see how he looked—dead people often don’t look like themselves once they’ve been…prepared. He looked pretty good, except for his glasses. They sat perfectly straight on his face. They never sat perfectly on his face when he was alive.

By the time friends began to arrive at the church, the 38 of us had all assembled, seen dad, watched the video and were ready to go. So many people came by to express their condolences. The nametag thingy was a big success and generated lots of conversations with friends and many people we didn’t know, but who had known dad. We all saw friends we hadn’t seen for probably decades. Partway through the evening, the grandkids and great grandkids bowed out and went back to moms to have more to eat. I think David went with them. The siblings stayed around until the very end.

I don’t remember much about the funeral itself. There were a lot of people there. Dad had been so involved in a lot of things in the community and was well known. The funeral director knew dad well. He said had dad not been out of sight for the last couple of years, the church probably would have been packed.

We had two or three limos for mom and the siblings for the trip to the cemetery. Spouses and non-spouses—David—drove cars. I may be wrong, but being the baby, I think I rode with mom. Most of the other people there were closer friends. Dad was a veteran, so there was a tribute from the local association. Chris, in the Coast Guard, was in uniform to honor dad’s service to the country.

I held up pretty well through most of it. Thank god it was not a long ordeal. The graveside service ended, most people left, only the family remained. As they began lowing the casket into the grave, I lost it. The final farewell was so difficult for me. I’m so thankful David was there with me, holding me in his arms.

My dad. My dad was such a special man. My dad and I didn’t agree on much. My dad and I “discussed” things a lot—mom would often leave the room. My dad never understood the whole gay thing, but he never shied away from talking about it. My dad loved David. My dad loved me. My dad is gone. My friend is gone.

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